In The Silence
by Esse
Summary: Three hundred years is a terribly long time. (49) "It's not a dream, is it?"
1. shadow

_**Disclaimer: **_Rise of the Guardians_ belongs to _William Joyce_ and _DreamWorks_. _The Guardians_ belongs to _William Joyce_... and _Laura Geringer_ (a tad)... and perhaps _Simon & Schuster_. The _Guardians of Childhood_? Yeah, that would be _Joyce_ as well. Esse belongs in the east wing of _Fuzzy Fuchsia Carpets Sanitorium for the Criminally Inept_. Yes. You heard it here first. Ineptness is a crime._

_**Notes:** It seems to me the movie and the books take place in two separate worlds. This story takes place somewhere between the two. Expect spoilers and speculation._

_**Warnings:**__ Some parts are dark. Some parts are fluffy. And some parts... well... yeah... They're _really_ dark._

In The Silence

~1~

The village glows golden in front of him. Light dances from the bonfire and from the clear, curving glass of hurricane lamps; reflects back from the sparkling eyes of the villagers bundled up in thick, warm layers of clothing. Light bathes them in its comforting presence; it chases back the dark to mere shadows under their feet.

He stares down at his own pale, bare feet.

_He casts no shadow._

And that, perhaps, is the most terrifying thing during a night full of discoveries both wonderful and horrific. A handful of truths swimming amongst the blank, dark depths of his mind. He is Jack Frost — if the Moon wasn't lying. He doesn't think the Moon would lie, but he never would have thought light would lie, and yet...

_He casts no shadow._

Men and women pass through him, unseeing, unhearing. _Children_ pass through him — unbelieving. Light light light — passes right through him, denying his existence. But he does. He _does_ exist. He thinks...

Would the Moon have named him, if he didn't exist?

He must. If he didn't, then there wouldn't be memories of _cold_ and _dark_ and _fear_ before the Moon beckoned. And he does remember _cold_. And _dark_. And _fear_. They're with him still. Even if, right before him, there's warmth and light and happiness filling the village square. He yearns for them, towards them, reaching out with every fiber of his being — and frost creeps across the uneven ground.

_He wants to cast a shadow._

Frost comes across an invisible boundary, where the fire's warmth won't let it pass. There's a struggle, and he feels it as a tingle across his skin. It's unpleasant, and he pushes against the sensation, glaring up towards the Moon. He wants to _be_. He wants his voice to be heard, and his frost to be seen, and his _shadow_ to fall across the village square as proof that he **IS**.

And clouds cover the Moon, dark and angry, casting the village into shadow. The Wind picks up, moaning through the branches of the surrounding pine trees and whistling through tiny cracks in windows and small gaps underneath doors. Cold falls over the glowing town, sharp and painful, as frost spreads — a heavy blanket of perfect, frozen lace.

Shivering, the townsfolk rush back inside their homes, closing shutters against the wailing Wind and sudden flurry of stinging snow. The fire gutters — and dies. All that's left in the village's small square is _cold_. And _dark_. And _fear_.

Jack stares, and trembles. Because his shadow is horrible. _Horrible_. He turns and runs from it, but it follows behind him as any ordinary shadow would.

_cold_. _dark_. _fear_.

He's back where he started, the beginning of all memories, the beginning of him — whatever he might be. Not _cold dark fear_ he begs the hidden Moon, he never ever wants to be _cold dark fear_ but the Moon doesn't answer. Perhaps the Moon doesn't answer — because some truths are too terrible to speak.

He brings his staff down hard upon the lake's thick ice, and it cracks. Another blow; black, sluggish water oozes from the wound in the ice. Jack knows, he knows he knows _he knows_ that the Moon has made a mistake. A terrible, horrible _cold dark fear_ mistake.

He dives into the water, and lets it pull him down. Down into the inky, icy depths and _away_ from his raging storm of a shadow. Back to the very beginning, the very first memory, the very first realization of I. I. I.

He is Jack Frost — if the Moon wasn't lying. But the Moon knows by now that there's been a mistake; it must know, because _he_ knows. He's a terrible, tragic _cold dark fear_ mistake. Jack Frost never, never _ever_ should have been pulled from the bottom of the lake.


	2. question

In The Silence

~2~

The water is silent around him. Silent, and stifling, and perfectly clear. He holds his staff tightly; holds tightly to the only truth he's sure of. The staff is his. Or perhaps the staff _is_ him. He feels it, as he feels the ache in his knuckles and the sucking pull of frigid mud against the soles of his feet. He takes a deep breath, and water — _silent, stifling, clear_ — swirls in his lungs.

The sensation tickles, and he laughs, then listens intently. Laughter doesn't sound the same, when it's a laugh of water, instead of air. It doesn't sound like laughter at all.

Jack thinks — and this might also be a truth — that a laugh of water sounds the same as a sob.

The thick ice above him glows brightly. Moonbeams, reaching through the darksome depths, stroke along his arms and the curve of his staff, and they plaintively question._ 'Why why why?' _

"Why?" Jack swings his staff through still, dark water, and moonbeams slide to a rest in the staff's protective hook. "Didn't you _see_ me? Didn't _he_ see me?" He raises his eyes to the ice above, but there's no Moon to be seen, only light. "They _ran_. The villagers ran from my shadow. I'm — a monster." And, sure enough, a sob sounds exactly the same as a laugh of water. They both echo of heart-rending sorrow.

A moonbeam, brave as moonbeams are, tumbles from his staff into the crook of his arm._ 'Not the Jack boy,' _it says, glowing brightly, driving back the blackness of the lake's depths._ 'Not the frost child.'_

"If not a monster, than what?" Raising his arm, Jack stares at the beam as the water around them gains the faintest tinge of salt. "What am I? What am I supposed to _do_?"

The other moonbeams hovered; flashed and flickered, and fled back to the surface, past the ice, past the atmosphere, for they had tarried too long. But one moonbeam, a brave moonbeam, a beam now of both light and patterned ice, dances along the shoulders of a waterlogged cloak.

_'Jack boy, frost child... Children **play**.' _

The beam tugs gently at his cloak, and together they float towards the light. His staff brushes against the rough bottom of the ice and shatters it, exposing the smiling face of Moon. Wind greets him, lifts him from the water and spins him around, caressing his cheek in a biting kiss. The ice knits itself back together, solid now beneath Jack's feet. Supporting him. Ice, at least, believes in him. Perhaps, mayhaps, because _he_ believes in _ice_.

"Children — play," Jack whispers, soft as snowfall, but the Moon doesn't answer. Or perhaps Moon feels Jack has all the answer a child would ever need. ...If Moon didn't speak to him, then it only stood to reason that Moon couldn't lie to him.

The moonbeam, now as much frostlight as moonlight, rests atop his staff for a brief moment. He ventures a smile at it; a small, shy smile unsure of its welcome. And now, on his staff, there's a snowflake, brighter than moonlight, next to the beam.

_'Cold, Jack boy, yes,' _the moonbeam tells him, spiraling upwards, pulling the snowflake up with it. _ 'But not dark. No need for dark. No need for fear, frost child.'_ The snowflake is joined by another, then by dozens, until the sky is full of snow and reflected light.

The Wind cradles him, and Jack stares up into the swirling sky — and laughs. A laugh of air, and wonder, and joy. A laugh without a water-drenched cry.

"Children play!"

~o~

_**End Notes:** Esse's current favorite if/then statement:_

_If Nightlight get to have a moonbeam, then Jack gets to have one, too!_

_Many heartfelt thanks and snuggly huggles to _lokoforsonic9559_ and _My Vantilen_ for their reviews._

_Please feel free to skip the following notes, since they're in place strictly for my benefit (and there's something fundamentally wrong with endnotes being longer than the chapter...) If you do decide to read, please feel free to comment and correct ^_^_

_Basic assumptions Esse's making: Per the movie... _

_The _last_ time Jack met up with Bunny was the 'Blizzard of '68, Easter Sunday'. Which, since there are no historical records of such a blizzard, we must assume was much more a 'Snow Flurry of '68' that was grossly exaggerated. Also, we have no way of knowing _which_ century this occurred in. Jack has, after all, seen three '68s go by._

_Jack meets Tooth for the first time in movie. Tsk, tsk; a managerial position for 440 years?_

_North and Jack recognize each other. Whether there had been an actual meeting between the two is unknown. North's recognition may be no more than Jack's place of pride on several centuries' worth of Naughty lists. ...And what child wouldn't know Santa?_

_While North does introduce Sandy to Jack, it's clear that Jack is already familiar with the Sandman. It's obvious (to me, at least) that the two have had prior interactions._

_Pitch immediately recognizes Jack. And Jack?_

_North: "Pitch is out there doing who knows what!"_

_Jack: "You mean the Boogeyman?"_

_o.O;; When Jack knows almost nothing about the Guardians? They might not have met in person - but they _are_ quite aware of each other. Likelihood of previous meetings: High._

_Basic assumptions Esse's making part II: Per the books, timeline..._

_In _Toothiana_ p.31 - _Trains were still not yet invented (Bunnymund would secretly help the credited inventors some decades later)._ ^o^ Fact: In 1804 Matthew Murray invents a steam locomotive that runs on wooden rails. _

_Granted, the term 'some decades' is vague, but it dates the adventure somewhere between 1705 (less than a century) to 1774 (which is the least number of years 'some decades' can represent without being 'a decade' or 'a couple of decades'). Jack, having been around for 300 years, would have died in 1712 (give or take a few years for Jack's faulty memory)._

_Interesting. There's a chance that Jack Frost was around _before_ North was made a Guardian. Before Bunnymund took an interest in humans again. But _not_ before Toothiana started collecting teeth._

_So, here's a great, big, gigantic assumption: Although it is implied that Burgess is Jack's _home_ in the movie, Burgess was established in 1798 (per the Thaddeus Burgess plaque) and _could not_ be the small village that Jack was from. I offer the alternative, that Jack is from an earlier settlement - namely, Tanglewood; _Nicholas St. North_ p.1 bwahaha! Which places Jack's lake amazingly close to the wreckage of the _Nightmare Galleon_. This delights me to no end._

True, this will all be disproven once the 4th book comes out... but still, I like this chain of speculation. Since it would mean that Jack is, in fact, the very first character introduced in the books.


	3. time

In The Silence

~3~

Jack spends his time drawing. The ice-slick surface of the lake is his canvas, and he covers it with his imagination's creations. Forests and fields of flowers. Jungles and oceans and bustling towns. His medium is frost, and when there's no longer a single hand's-breadth of clear ice, he waits for the sun to rise. The sun, bright and golden and ever so warm, easily erases his fragile art, leaving the lake a pristine slate, ready once more for his nightly ambition.

Jack spends his time playing with the Wind. Wind chases him; wraps around his staff and pulls him up above the treetops. Then he will follow Wind, or Wind will follow him, back down into the forest, over and under and around the snow ladened branches of the towering pines. And although the Wind often catches him, he can never _quite_ catch the Wind.

Jack spends his time listening to the happy hum of the moonbeam nestled in the hood of his cloak. His Snowflake beam, cool in the hollow above his collarbone, always asking,_ 'Why why why?'_

_Why did snow fall large and damp and slow one day, then small and dry and fast the next?_

_Why was his lake both water and ice? Shouldn't it be one or the other?_

_Why did the Wind never listen, but always answer? And why did Moon never answer — but always, always listen?_

_'Oh, no; no, Jack boy; don't be sad. Never sad. Let's play, frost child. We should play.'_

Jack spends his time at the outskirts of the village, watching the children. Watching, as only the cold silence of winter can watch. He waits for the children to leave their houses, bundled in layers of clothes and cloaks and scarves and hats, so incredibly stocky and stiff that sometimes he has trouble believing there are children inside at all. Then one child will bend down, and scoop up snow in a mittened hand.

A child will cup the snow between their hands — and a snowball will be revealed when their hands finally part.

A child will throw that snowball — and Jack whoops with delight. A war is raged, a war of snow and ice and laughter, the children the generals and the snowballs their troops. Jack doesn't take sides; he throws indiscriminately, and rarely misses his mark. But for all his encouragement, all his _help_ the children remain ignorant of their playmate.

A child will grow tired, hungry and cold — and then another. Soon enough, young generals return to the safe haven of their homes, their troops left abandoned on the churned, trampled snow of the village square. Hovering, Jack watches them from the few windows not shuttered. Watches the warm greetings between the children and their parents. Watches hugs, and stories told before the flickering fire, and kisses placed on expectant, upturned faces as children are tucked into soft, snug beds. Watches until frost blocks his view, and the moonbeam urges him to other pursuits.

_'Children play, Jack boy. We should play.' _

"Children have _families_, Snowflake." His steps are heavy, heading back into the forest, yet he leaves not a single footprint behind. "Children play _together_." He blinks back tears, and bites back accusations, staring fearfully up into the clouded night sky growing more turbulent by the second. "Children don't have storms for shadows."

He tries to calm himself, but his shadow, once summoned, is difficult to dismiss. And he's glad the children are safe in their homes, as the Wind moves faster, tugging at the hem of his cloak, urging him onwards.

Jack spends his time drawing. Then, one night, the thin layer of icemelt on the lake's surface doesn't refreeze. He taps at the ice with his staff, and it cracks with a splintery, hollow sound. It's a dreadful, mournful noise that leaves him curled up on the lake's shore with the sun's first rays peaking out from behind the eastern mountains, and no knowledge of where the night has gone.

Snowmelt drips from the branches of the pines, and finds its way past the collar of his shirt, sending a shiver down his spine. It's a new sensation for Jack — and he doesn't like it. Not one bit. So he swings his staff in front of him and _pushes_ as he has for the past days, past weeks. Pushes against warmth, but this time, it's frost that gives way.

Everything is muddy. Everything is _ruined_. Even the Wind is different, acts different, _smells_ different. And Wind mutters warnings he can't quite understand.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Startled, Jack spins towards the voice, but the softened soil underfoot is treacherous and sends him crashing to the ground. Mud squelches between his toes and fingers as he looks up, up, up at the tall, cloaked woman standing over him. Her face is the cruelest face he has ever seen, and her face is the kindest face he has ever seen. Tears rise up in his eyes — and his shadow lies tamely sprawled behind him, defeated by the burning sun.

"W-who are you?" Jack struggles to stand, only to mire deeper in the slick mud.

The woman sighs, her cruel, caring face momentarily creased by some fleeting worry. "I am my Father's daughter. But, foremost, I am a mother." Reaching down, she runs her fingers gently through his mud-splattered hair. "Jack. And a stray moonbeam!" A secretive smile hides at the corner of her mouth as a fingertip nudges the huddled beam.

It is his first touch, and it reaches straight into the loneliest corners of his heart. "Are... Are you _my_ Mother?" he asks, and the question _hurts_ deep down in his chest — but it's her possible answer that scares him. Any answer — scares him.

The smile gives way to a frown on her beautiful, terrifying face. "I might have been," she replies carelessly, giving his hair one last, teasing tug. "You, though, are entirely Moon's work. I'll take neither credit nor blame."

Her dismissal cuts him; he can _feel_ the sharp, broken pieces wedged in his throat, making it impossible to talk. And, somehow, she _knows_. And she's suddenly kneeling next to him, unmindful of the slimy muck.

"Shh, shh, Jack. Pretty, precious child." She drapes her arm around him, hiding him within the folds of her cloak, and the clean, cold air of winter washes over him. "Silly boy. What are you _doing_ here?"

Gulping icy breaths, Jack stares up at her, the lady so kind and so cruel. "This... This is my lake. If I'm not supposed to be here... Where _should_ I be?"

"Where?" She lifts a hand covered in mud, and smears it along his chin. "Little misplaced Piece of Winter, whatever are you doing here in spring?"

He knows the word Spring, although he had not known it before she'd spoken. Spring was birth, and green-growing-warmth, and lengthening days wending their way towards Summer. And Summer was a word that burned, bright and hot and hurtful until it dulled into orange and red Autumn. They weren't _his_ season, and he'd find no welcome with them.

Her smile returns, both sly and sincere, and she stands, exposing him once more to spring. "Hmm. I do hope you figure it out, Jack. I'll be disappointed, if I don't see you next winter. A mother hates to be disappointed... Almost as much as a daughter."

Jack doesn't see her leave; doesn't see anything past the panic clouding his vision. He has nowhere to go. No home to hide him. No family to shelter him. All he's ever had — is the lake. And the Moon. But Moon had never before cared about his problems — and Jack didn't think that would change any time soon.

Trembling, he makes his way to the lake's shore. The ice coating the surface is thin. Frightfully, dangerously thin beneath bare feet as he steps out on it. With a hoarse shout, he strikes the ice with his staff. The ice responds by swiftly pulling him below the surface.

_'Why why why?!' _his Snowflake moonbeam cries, as frigid water engulfs them both._ 'Why, Jack boy, why?'_

Jack spends his time at the bottom of the lake, gazing wistfully up at the far, far surface — and watches and waits and hopes for the return of winter.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Many thanks to _TheFrenchGal_, the anonymous _hi_, and _LadyPsycho16_ for their reviews ^_^ _

Toothiana_ p.225: _"I've encountered this being before," said the Pooka. "She's not always a benevolent soul, and she is very unpredictable."_ Bwahaha! That's right, she's one __**mean**__ Mother!_

_Erm..._

_Right, then. I find absolutely no reference that Jack's Sister's name is Pippa. I do have reference to the movie's credits: _Olivia Mattingly ... Pippa / Jack's Sister_. Which means that Mrs. Mattingly provided the voice for both Pippa, one of Jamie's friends, _and_ Jack's Sister. Which means I shan't name her at all in my story. Neener neener. ^^;; Right-o._

_In this particular, blended universe, character ages run something like this..._

_Bunnymund's **old**. Old old old! the oldest. That's what happens with those who dip in and out of time. Then Sandy, since he was out piloting his shooting star while MiM was still just a wee wedge of cheese. Followed by MiM, followed by Tooth, who is significantly older than North._

_Ah, North... who may or _may not_ be older than Jack. According to my timeline (only valid in _this_ universe, your mileage may vary) there's a chance Jack died before Nicholas took the Guardian oath. Depending on how _many_ years separate the two events... yeah. North might be the baby of the bunch. Mwahaha! -cough hack choke-_


	4. belief

In The Silence

~4~

Spring is a season of gradual changes. The water surrounding him warms — gradually. Day lengthens and night shortens — gradually. And children find their way to his lakeshore — gradually. These are the differences Jack notices, as he sits at the bottom of his lake waiting for time to pass.

There's little entertainment to be had; no fun at all to be had as spring gives way to blistering summer. His Snowflake moonbeam urges him to play, but in the cool, darksome depths his imagination fails him. As does his memory, as he fights to recall the sparkle of moonlight reflecting off a drift of snow. In the torturous thrall of summer, winter seems like nothing more than the foolish, faded dream of a silly, drowned boy.

There, at the doorway to summer, Jack learns his very first spell. He learns it out of desperation, but it's another truth to add to his handful of true things. It is the first spell learned by small children; a spell lost to almost every adult. Yet Jack, caught between the two states — never again a young child, never a chance for adulthood — finds the spell in the gentle, reassuring glow of his Snowflake, resting peacefully atop the staff he cradles carefully in his arms.

"I believe," he whispers.

_I believe. I believe. I believe._

Winter would come again. And he'd be able to rejoin the children in their games. Because Jack _believes_ it will be so.

It gives him the strength to find interest in his surroundings. He chases after schools of small, flickering fish the way he'd once chased after the Wind. When he tires of that game, he listens carefully to the moonbeam, who teaches him the language of the minnows — which happens to be the easiest of the fish languages to learn. Then, _then_ he can tease the fish, and they'll respond in kind, and games of chase turn into games of tag, turn into evening tales of summer sunsets Jack dares not experience for himself.

Jack _believes_, as children swim in the warm, wavering waters high above his head. He yearns to join them, but the warning of the lady with the kind, cruel face stays with him, and he keeps to the cold, murky lake floor. Later. Later, he'll be able to play with the children. Later will come.

_He believes._

Days pass between his children's visits. Snowflake teaches him the language of pollywogs, that rattled harshly in his throat and itched at his wrists. Minnows brag of the small insects they had caught, and dangers they had avoided. And summer begrudgingly yields to autumn.

Nights lengthen — gradually. The water around him chills — gradually. The children stop visiting his lake... And, suddenly, Jack _knows_. Knows with the same certainty that the staff held easily in his hands is _his_, knows as surely as a laugh of air could never, not ever be compared to a laugh of water. Jack _knows_. Winter is coming, and he needs to greet it.

Snowflake moonbeam clinging tightly to his shoulder, Jack bursts from the placid surface of the lake in a spray of freezing, gleaming water. Wind catches him, twirls him dry in a fierce embrace, then lightly lowers him. Bare, pale toes touch — ice. He laughs, unrestrained, as ice spreads; irresistible, underfoot, under staff. He slides across the smooth ice-glass surface, and draws; frost ferns and frost fronds and frost flowers flow outward, and it's been _so long_ since he's been free.

His lake. _His_ lake. Finally, it's entirely his. Part of him, as his staff. Part of him, as his Snowflake moonbeam. He reclaims this piece of himself, welcomes it home as a wayward brother, with the same relief. With the same, unfettered joy.

_He believes._

He races the Wind towards the village, leaving frosty handprints on the trunks of trees and icy patches where his bare feet touch the ground. The Wind is faster, so he tackles it; throws his arms around the Wind and lets it carry him onward, downward, through the pines to the valley floor and the drab, grey-brown houses softened by the first, faint dusting of snow.

"Where are they?" Jack peers through windows; jumps from rooftop to rooftop; stops and holds himself still as he listens. Everything is still and silent as a twilight snowfall. Jack holds his breath, and the first, friendly storm of winter holds its breath — and they listen.

And there, in the distance, is the ringing laughter of children.

Jack finds them in the pumpkin patch, bringing in the last of the harvest. Scarves hide their smiling mouths, and mittens protect their small hands, but snowflakes cling whitely to their wild, tousled hair and fall daintily on their upturned noses.

He scoops up a handful of snow, and molds it into a ball. Holds the snowball up...

_I believe. I believe. I believe._

...and throws it at a young girl resting atop the largest pumpkin in the field. It hits her squarely between her large, expressive — _familiar, not familiar_ — eyes. She blinks for a moment, dazed, confused, before wiping slushmelt from her face.

"All right, who threw that?" she asks, and before any of the children can answer, she's forming her own ball of tightly compacted snow.

"I did!" Jack's in front of her, his very first general of the new winter. He's kneeling, smiling gleefully up into her — _not familiar, so familiar_ — sparkling brown eyes. He's reaching out to her...

_I believe. I believe. I believe._

...and his spell, the very first spell small children learn, and the spell almost all adults forget, shatters into a thousand frozen, hopeless shards as she _steps through him_ to throw her snowball.

She doesn't see his agonized face. She doesn't hear his plaintive cries.

"Wind!" he pleads, arms held out beseechingly and tears like hail falling from his cheeks. "Snowflake, please! No! ...MOON!"

Jack learns the first lesson not taught to him by his moonbeam. And while it's not the worst truth he'll ever gather, it's the one that will stay with him the longest. And while Snowflake begs him, implores him, _'No, Jack boy. Believe again. Please believe,'_ he knows. _He knows._

There's no belief in all the wide world strong enough to withstand the indifference of a single child.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Many heartfelt thanks to _SolemnSoul_ and _arrowtosparrow_ for their reviews. I find that I'd really, really truly like to know what people think of this story. My poor, lonely nutter of a Jack... Really, reviews of any sort will be met with tackle glomps from now on. Ask me questions — they help point out plot holes of doom._

_Okay, on to jibber jabber that everyone can skip ^_^_

arrowtosparrow_ Re: Joyce's interview where he states:_

'So I was like, "Let me make up these guys in their world and let's set the movie 200 years later, and we have all this stuff that we know about them from the books, but they do not compete with that story, they enrich that story."_' _

_^^;; Yeah, there's that. Which would work, if Bunnymund got his dates wrong on how soon the locomotive would be invented ("Oh, no, wait. It appears it's being invented right now!"). Hey, it's possible. But, gosh... that would put Jack with up to a 100 year jump start on North. Okay. This idea has me laughing. A lot. With wicked ideas. But for the sake of my universe's continuity, I'm going to stick to the assumption that "some decades" is closer to the century mark instead of, say, next Tuesday._

_Or, to quote Homer — Simpson, that is: _"Phfft! Facts. You can use them to prove anything."_ Heehee, everybody can be right, and everybody wins! Yay! You just have to pick and choose which facts to present._

_XD Yaaagh, I really can't get grumpy, old Jack out of my head now! If _The Sandman_ has Jack wandering around for years and years and years previously, I will be dead Esse. Cranky _ancient_ immortal teenage angst-monster fun-loving Jack _vs._ Baby of the Guardian Family North ftw._


	5. trick

In The Silence

~5~

The children of the village are outside playing. Huffing breaths from red-cheeked faces form milky clouds around their heads. Noses run, and noses sniffle at the brisk cold, but the children pay no heed except to rub at their upper lips with their bright-mittened hands as they roll snow into ever larger balls. They laugh; laugh at each other, and the pale, far-away sun, and laugh at the snow forts and snow men and snow angels they create. It's their laughter that draws him in, against his will — though not against his instinct.

He wants to play.

_He wants to play with his children._

But the very first spell he's ever cast has been broken, and Jack doesn't know how to start believing again.

He watches them from his perch atop a thickly tarred barrel. He's always watching, he can't _not_ watch, not when there's snow and children and laughter that _pierces_ and _hurts_ and he _can't_ catch his breath _hewants to playwithhis children._

"Moon, just _tell_ me what to do!" But either the Moon doesn't hear him, off on the other side of the world, or Moon doesn't care, or maybe, just maybe his loudest shouts are nothing more than the absolute silence of a fallen flake of snow. He jumps from the barrel to the smirched snowdrift packed against the side of the house — but he doesn't leave a footprint.

He pulls fretfully at his hair, and stomps down harder — but he doesn't leave a footprint.

He slams the bottom of his staff against the ground, and frost races across the village square causing the children to squeal as cold nipped at their fingers through their mittens, and snapped at their toes through the thick leather of their shoes — but he leaves no other mark.

And he thinks, Is he any more than the snowflakes that surround him? A single snowflake leaves no mark. A single snowflake makes no sound. Is he a snowflake, that dared dream it was a boy? Is he a snowflake, caught in some dread enchantment? Could he possibly _probably_ be a snowflake with a blizzard for a shadow, a storm cloud churning angrily at the valley's far edge?

_'Jack boy,'_ his moonbeam distracts him, glowing silver from its resting place inside his tattered hood. _'Think not such thoughts. Play, frost child. All children play.'_

~Do they?~ The voice, the gentle, reasonable, _dreadful_ voice comes from the dark recesses of the barrel beside him. _Yellow mad_ eyes stare at him from a tarry crack in the wood, and there's the skittering of claws, of something desperate to escape, something sharp-toothed and frantic and _trapped trapped trapped_. ~Do they indeed, dear boy? For I see a child not playing. Is it, then, not a child at all?~

Stung, Jack glares back at the _mad yellow ravenous_ regard. "I play!" he tells the skittering shadow. "All children play!"

~Hmm.~ It's a rat. It's a rat, black as pitch, trapped in the barrel, skittering and chittering and _laughing at him_ and he wants to run and he _doesn't know why he's not running away_ from the hungry, mocking voice. ~Is that so? Well, I've heard it said that _all_ children play tricks.~ The voice scrapes like gravel across his skin, then deepens enough to latch into bone. ~Tell me, have _you_ played any _tricks_, frost child?~

_'No, Jack boy, no!'_ And his Snowflake moonbeam must be more snowflake than moonlight, for its protest falls without a sound. _'Never listen to the shadows!'_ the beam warns, but all Jack can hear is a far, far, ever-so-faint voice, and it's saying...

_You always play tricks!_

He can't remember. He chases the voice to the furthest reaches of his mind, but the vast vault where memories should reside is empty. _Empty._ He can't remember _at all_ except... except... Hadn't he agreed? There's a certainty there — an absolute truth. This is a piece of him: Staff, lake, **this**.

_You always play tricks!_

He'll show the sly, skittering shadow. He can play with his children. He can play — tricks.

One child hasn't been as busy as the others. One young girl-child sits quietly on a tree stump, merely watching the industry of her playmates. He knows her — _doesn't know her at all_ — by her warm, brown eyes. His first general of winter, and Jack realizes with a sharp pain that wrenches a gasp from his throat: She's never, not _once_ ever come to his lake. Not in summer to swim, not in winter to...

To...

It's time to play, he decides, and the Wind agrees. It snatches the knitted muffler from her neck and carries it towards the edge of town. The little girl claps her hands to her bared throat in distress, then gives a warbling cry when she realizes what has happened. She jumps from the stump and sprints after her muffler, and Jack flies beside her, grinning at the game.

Keep Away, and the Wind knows the rules of this game well. As the girl reaches down to pick up the scarf, it's snatched back up and blown into the forest, a teasing, taunting flag luring the girl deeper amongst the pines. Time passes and unnoticed, untended, Jack's shadow pours across the valley, dropping the temperature and changing the snowfall from fat, lazy flakes into icy pellets that sting. And Jack's delight in playing, finally _playing_ with one of the children, twists into something else when the girl collapses, wheezing, sobbing, tears frozen to her lashes and her lips stained with blue.

"Jack..." she whispers from behind chattering teeth, as she gazes up at him blankly, unseeing. "...I've lost the scarf you gave me. I. I'm s-scared, Jack."

_no._ Crouching, he tugs the muffler from Wind's grasp and wraps it gently around the little girl's neck. _no no no._

"C'mon," he says, pleading with her, reaching out to her, but his closeness only causes her shivering to worsen. "That's... That's enough fun for one day. So — get up, okay? It's time to go home."

She doesn't see him. She doesn't _know_ him, though she's calling his name, over and over... until her shaking is overtaken by the absolute stillness of winter.

Wind carries to him the voices of her searchers, and he shouts back to them that she's here, oh please, she's here!

But who can hear a snowflake falling?

Beyond desperate, he tries to touch her. Again. And again. He would carry her home, if only. he could. _touch_.

The voices are fading, retreating, deaf to Jack's anguished screams for help. One last shriek of pure fear ruptures something deep inside him — something unbreakable breaks — and Jack can no longer hear his own cries.

_'It's okay, Jack boy. Be not afraid.'_ His moonbeam, his Snowflake, lifts from its resting place in the folds of his cloak and hovers in the air before him. _'Cold, yes...'_ it says regretfully, as its glow brightens. _'Never __**dark**__, frost child,'_ it soothes, forgives, brighter than the cloud-shrouded sun, brighter than even the Moon, triumphantly defiant. _'Never __**fear**__!'_

She's found as the moonbeam starts to flicker and dim. They wrap her in blankets and carry her home, Jack running beside them, his mouth full of useless, silent apologies that rest caustic and bitter on his tongue. He watches from the doorway as she's handed to her mother, wept over by her father. He waits at the window as the girl-child is warmed, and loved, and finally deemed well enough to be tucked safely into bed.

~Well well well. I'll admit to being impressed. What will your next trick be, I wonder?~

Mute, Jack runs from the village and the _ravenous wrong yellow_ eyes. All of his words — are gone. His brave, loyal Snowflake — is gone. And the only need he feels — is to be gone as well.

Curling around his staff under the hollow of a fallen tree, Jack stares emptily across the lake, and _believes_ with all of his might...

_In spring._

~o~

_**End Notes:** Enter a villain — that's not Moon. Because, in regards to Jack, I very much view MiM as a villain. And — I'm really gonna hafta decide soon if I'm using Bunny, or Bunnymund. There's just too vast a gulf between the two for me to wrap my mind around. Ehn, I guess I'll figure it out, eventually. Maybe. Perhaps._

_If you're reading strictly for the story, please stop here, have a wonderful day, and return tomorrow for the next part. Thank you for dropping by, and please leave questions and/or comments in the review box on your way out._

_Many heartfelt thanks to _lokoforsonic9559, Zarz, Bookworm Gal, Sakon76, LostInMyMind98, Sarastro the Queen o the Night,_ and _Kittie1_ for their reviews - and as promised... HUGGLE GLOMPS! I'm cheered immensely that you like the story ^o^ I was starting to get worried ^^;;_

lokoforsonic9559:_ I have a scene, stuck in my mind, of Jack appearing before North a year after his Workshop is built. _

_Jack: You disrespectful punk, what are you doing horning in on MY season?_

_North: Hello little boy! You want nice toy, yes?_

_Jack: -_- Little Boy? Oh, I've gotta toy for you... ::taps staff threatening in palm of hand:: Go look in your Workshop, laughing boy._

_North: Hmm? ::looks in Workshop, where all production has come to a standstill:: NOOO! Who give Yetis Chinese Finger Puzzles?! That is it! I create Naughty list, just for you!_

_Jack: Grr. ::shakes staff wildly in the air:: Imma whack him!_

_Moral of the story: Don't patronize grumpy ancient Jack; he'll hit you where it hurts._

Sakon76:_ Phillipa works, certainly, especially since (most likely) the small settlement would have been made up of a mixture of English and French colonists (I'm assuming there would have been French influence, what with the river...) I just have a personal disliking for the English diminutive Pippa. What tickles me is, if people are giving Jack's Sister the name of Pippa solely because they're voiced by the same VA, then by that reasoning Jack and Jamie share the same mother, because they're both voiced by Emily Nordwind. Bwahaha, time traveling/immortal mama!_

_Le sigh. I can not find a good image of Jamie's Light on the Globe, and I'm not familiar enough with the east coast of North America to pinpoint which state it's in while watching the movie. I sure hope it's Pennsylvania, because I've convinced myself the original settlement is Quaker._


	6. broken

In The Silence

~6~

He stares steadily across the rippling surface of the lake, his expression never changing. Through falling rain and steady sun and the insistent, frantic tugging of the Wind, he doesn't move. He doesn't blink. Curled around a curiously shaped length of dry, splintered wood, he lays in the hollow formed underneath a fallen tree with all the grace and dignity of a battered, abandoned porcelain doll. Grass is growing through the course weave of his cloak, and a dandelion blooming next to his ankle has scattered a dusting of bright pollen across his bare feet.

He may not look it, but Jack has been busy. Extraordinarily busy. For all magic starts with one simple spell. The spell of belief. And Jack has devoted himself to this spell; to this _believing_. The Moon, on a whim — _perhaps, perhaps not_ — had created him, and if he can perfect this spell, _believe_ enough for the magic to work, he can correct the Moon's mistake.

_Be not. Be not. Be not._

He _thinks_ his belief is enough. He _thinks_ the magic is taking hold. He can't feel the sun, or the rain, or the Wind. Even the _cold dark fear_ inside him is faint, and nearly forgotten. He _thinks_ he might have finally done something right — but thinking is a struggle, so he puts it aside to focus on belief.

_Be not. Be not. Be not._

"Jack..." The voice is a distraction, and he doesn't want to listen to it, but it calls to something deep within him that isn't properly numb. It sounds familiar, and welcoming, and... like something he's heard, before. _Before_. Before him. Before the Moon's hideous mistake. It sounds — like a mother calling for her son.

"Jack." It's closer, more real than memory, and he snatches desperately at _belief_, but the spell is unraveling — and he's almost aware enough to mourn. Cool, slight pressure against his forehead and the side of his face; his eyes close slowly in protest of the touch. "Poor, precious child. What has the world done to you?"

Something settles next to him, larger than the mice and hares and wolves that have done their best to rouse him over the long, fuzzy months. Something prods him, carelessly carefully pulling him up and tilting back his head; he can _see_ the burning dazzle of the sun behind his closed lids, _sees_ searing red shot through with pure, blessed white — and it feels like an ending.

_Be not. Be not. Be not._

There's a weary sigh pressed up against his ear, and the sigh is in the Wind, and the bobbing of the dandelions, and the earth scraping roughly against the soles of his feet. All the world is wearily sighing in his ear. And though the tilt of his head forces his eyes to crack open, he's blinded to all except the strobing sun-dazzle that's granting his dearest wish.

_Cold_. It drapes around him, burning. _He remembers, remembers: Cold that burns, eating away through flesh and muscle, pouring down his throat and flooding his lungs, burning and dark and terror no no no take this memory away away that coldkillscoldkillscold __**kills**__ he can't bear to remember this._

"Shh, shh. That's no memory for my little Piece of Winter. Winter's about fun, isn't it, Jack? Snowball fights. Sledding. Even — ice-skating." Fingers like icicles run through his hair and across his brow; cradle his head and turn his face away from the sun into a chilled, silken shoulder. He'd weep, but there's not a drop of moisture left in him.

"Let me take that memory. See? Isn't the cold pleasant? Isn't it wonderful?" And — as though her words make it so — the bitter cold _is_ wonderful. Refreshing, and it pours over him, _into_ him, filling his veins with lake water and ice. And it's a relief from pain so terrible, so _unfaceable_ that it had driven him harshly against the jagged boundaries of oblivion. Relief so great, so shocking, that it forces a gasp past dry, cracked lips.

A silent, snowflake gasp.

_He has no words._

"But there's something else..." She's there, in his mind, and she's there, surrounding him, and she's _there_ with him, watching his first trick. Watching with her cruel-caring dark-shining eyes. "There's..." Another great sigh runs through the world, past tender lips pressed against his ear. "Moon, I swear, you have much to answer for."

He can blink; blinks dry gritty sun-blinded dry eyes, and a mute question forms upon his mouth.

But she understands. "Child, no one warned you of the shadows. No one warned you of my Father." A sprinkling of snow falls across him, and his vision clears, allowing him to see her terrible, beautiful — _loving she loves me she loves how she loves_ — face. "The Nightmare Men _lie_, my dearest. My _Father_ lies. And I'll tell you a secret, a secret that few ever learn: When you listen to a shadow, even the truest Truth can become a lie. It's fear's greatest power."

He trembles, and wraps a thin, fragile hand around a lock of her stormcloud hair. He has so few truths to cling to — and now she tells him they're false? _All lies?_

"No. No, Jack. They're still truths — _your_ truths. Shadows can twist them in to lies, but if you refuse to listen, _if you walk away_, they'll become your truths once more. But if you continue to listen, if _their_ lies become _your_ truth, then, Jack," she warns him in a voice of thunder, "the shadows will **eat you alive**."

He sobs dryly, silently against her shoulder, and she takes pity on him, wrapping him tightly in her cloak of cloud and chill. "Shh. Shh." She lifts him; cradles him close and rocks him to the rhythm of the Wind. "My Father is a great thief. He's taken much from you, Jack. But what he's stolen, you'll find, in time."

Not his moonbeam. Not his Snowflake. Because — another truth that he'd give anything to make a lie — no two snowflakes are ever the same. His Snowflake is forever gone from him; he'll never have another friend.

"Never's a frightfully long time, my dearest. Never doesn't actually exist. Never — has never, ever happened." There's a sly, knowing smirk gracing the lips that she presses against his forehead in a forgiving kiss. She's carrying him, him and his splintered staff, to the edge of the lake — and in. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with water; opens his mouth to sip at the cool current, letting the lake drench and soothe the unbreakable broken thing inside him. The lake returns to him his tears. "I don't believe in nevers, Jack — and I am very, _very_ good at believing."

He's full of questions, full of — _something_ — that wants out, wants to be known, wants... To be. But though his mouth is open, though he strains and struggles...

_He has no words._

The lady kisses him again, lips pressed to lips, calming the raging _thing_ inside him. "Time, Jack. You will find what you seek — in time." She releases her hold on him, frees him from her cloak, and starts to hand him his staff. Starts, then stops, her knowing, innocent eyes wide with wonder. She runs a slender finger up the length of the branch; lets it rest on the knobby, gnarled spot where the staff begins its strange, hooked curve. Lets her finger touch, momentarily, on a spark of gold embedded in the ancient wood — and it feels like she's touching his _soul_. "Indeed. You might even find that which other's seek."

She places the staff in his outstretched hands, and smiles again, wickedly delighted. "I doubt even Moon knows. You're a trickster, Jack. And this, _this_ is a wonderfully brilliant trick. A good trick. The best trick in the world."

He doesn't want to play tricks. He'll never trick anyone again.

"Ah ah; what did I say about never?" She is cruel, and she is kind, and she is _not_ his mother — but she _feels_ so very much like one — the same as she _feels_ like one of his children. "I think, Jack, that it's time for you to rest. I can handle one more winter, though I'll miss you, and your art. Learn to dream again, child.

"Dream of a friend. Believe in a friend. It's time for you to find something _new_ to believe in."

He hadn't known he could sleep. But he's yawning, and it's growing impossible to keep his eyes open, _they'd been open for months and months and rest sounds_ so _good..._

Jack falls asleep, the start of his third spell gathering strength as an awkward, unsure belief begins to form.

_i am._

~o~

_**End Notes:** If you value your sanity, stop reading here =) If you value Esse's ficcie, please deposit reviews in the proper receptacle on your way out._

_Durp ^^;; You have no idea how terribly the last section wanted to misbehave. I would have scrubbed it entirely, except it's _plot_ and has to stay, but even after severe rewriting and banging my head against the desk... It STILL reads as if there's Jack molestation going on. Gah! No, no lady, get your nasty fingers off Jack's staff!_

_-_- I have no idea _how_ to rewrite this so it isn't so... so... blarfy. And — the Jack-whomping is apparently never ending. Trust me, I'm quite a bit ahead. And the pain. never. stops. ...Or maybe it does ^_~_

_Many heartfelt thanks to _Spark of the forgotten, Nefarious Seraph 13, UVNight, AnnLuc, Anonymous_ reviewer, and _Kaylessa_ for their reviews. You have absolutely no idea how much they mean to me right now. As you can probably tell, writing this story forces me to dwell in a _very_ dark place, and the time you spend to write a review brightens my sky ^_^ Thank you and frosty blessings!_

_and, closing out the notes..._

_The lady isn't an OC - but the fact is, we haven't yet been given her personality in the books. So, slightly longer excerpts from Toothiana, p.224 and 225:_

_'_North was the first to gather his wits. "That woman in the clouds. Pitch's daughter?"_'_

_and..._

_'_Ombric tugged at his beard once, then a second time, then at last he said, "She has another name, apparently. By some she's known as Mother Nature."_'_

_So, now you know who she is (lovely picture of her in the book, by the way). Shh, don't tell Jack!_


	7. dream

In The Silence

~7~

Beneath the frothing surface of the lake, where children laugh and splash and play, Jack sleeps as glaciers sleep, slow and thoughtful with movement so slow only earth takes notice. Glacier sleep is a powerful sleep, a sleep that flows and retreats to the rhythms of time. In the still, cool depths of the lake, Jack dreams. He doesn't know that they are dreams, only knows that his world has become exceedingly strange, elongated into disturbing, stretched shapes.

Jack's lake is in his dreams. If it's winter, he's above the water; if it's summer, he's below the water. And he dreads his lake because always, _always_ there comes a point where it's winter, but he's below the ice — _right below the surface_ — and his staff is missing, gone, _he's never had a staff_ and the ice refuses to obey him, refuses to _break_ no matter how hard he hits it, how much he pleads. In these dreams, ice is merciless.

He knows, though, that ice should listen to him. And with this realization his lake retreats in watery tendrils that climb up the rough trunks of the surrounding pines and watches him through snow heavy branches. Or his lake is the snow on the branches. It doesn't matter. It's all the same.

His Snowflake moonbeam is on his shoulder, so bright so _bright_ humming to him sweetly, and he _listens listens listens_ closely, though it's hard to hear through light so bright...

_'forever I will glow.'_

...but he can't see Snowflake through the light. It's not moonlight, it's the sun, so close so frighteningly close and there's nowhere to run because ice covers the surface of his lake, and he's trapped underneath, but he can see, peering down at him through ice-glass...

His first general of winter. His quietest child. Does she want to play? Of course she does; _all_ children play. His lake is a field of snowballs, and he's wrapping a knitted muffler so-very gently around the girl-child's neck, and he's saying...

_"There you go! That should keep you plenty warm. Ready to have a little fun?"_

Did he say that? _Had he ever said that?_ There's a fracture in the dream, a crack in the crystal air that oozes dark, putrid water, but the girl is smiling up at him, _belief_ shining in her eyes, and _love love love_. Jack will do anything for this child, anything at all — except his shadow is overhead, his shadow of _cold dark fear_ and the little girl is staring through him, staring at the spreading, watery crack behind him in horror, and her lips are blue on her white, white face, and even with her mouth frozen over with tears he can hear her calling his name...

~Jack! Jack Frost! I've been looking _everywhere_ for you, and here you've been, right on my front doorstep!~

_fear cold dark fear cold dark fear cold dark fear cold dark_

The rat is in front of him, _ravenous mad yellow_ eyes gloating, and pitch runs in rivulets down its dark, dark fur, pooling up in tarry puddles that reach out to him with the fingers of a mother. He tries to run, but ice has trapped him underneath, he's _underneath_ — and ice hates him, _hates him_ — and he tries to scream...

_But. he. has. no. words._

~Oh, frost child, you have no idea how _delicious_ you are. I must remember to thank Moon.~

Ice hates him. His lake hates him. And his first general of winter would hate him, if he hadn't killed her, because _all children play tricks!_

"Jack! Hold on, help's almost there! Remember, don't listen to shadows!"

He can't breath, because his lungs are filled with lake and snow and sun. He can't — breath. But breathing isn't as important as the moonbeam resting in the hollow of his throat, humming sweetly, humming softly, humming a lullaby.

_'Never listen to the shadows, Jack boy. What are **your** truths, frost child?'_

His truths?

_My shadow is horrible, but I am not my shadow._

~NO!~

There's a shimmer to the air, a golden haze like heat — but it doesn't burn. It feels — like sleep.

_Children play. Children play tricks. I'm the best trick of all._

The rat is hissing, skittering, clawing at golden dust that sticks to its fur — clawing itself to _shreds_. With one final, threatening snarl it retreats, through the loathsome crack splitting the air, retreats to _elsewhere_.

_Shadows can make a lie of truth — but only if you _listen_ to them._

His lake is peaceful around him, radiating the cold of winter. Jack yawns, and rubs tiredly at his eyes. The water is full of swirling streamers of gold; curious, he reaches out to one — and smiles in wonder as a glimmering, golden Snowflake takes shape. Lips pursed, he reaches out again, and again, until the lake is filled with joyful golden moonbeams.

Has he managed it? Has his spell worked? Has he dreamt a friend?

Winter beckons. Gold beckons. Staff held in front of him, Jack floats towards the surface of the lake. There's ice over his head, and for a brief, terrified second he's back — somewhere — but the gold wraps him around in warmth that doesn't burn, and the ice parts at his staff's request. Wind picks him up, so gently, so tenderly, so _unlike_ the Wind — but he doesn't mind.

There's a man at the frozen edge of his lake. A peculiar, tiny, _golden_ man, beckoning. Beckoning. Smiling a sleepy golden smile, and with golden arms opened wide in welcome, beckoning beckoning beckoning. Jack hesitates, for who would ever want a _cold dark_ _fear _child? But there's gold running through his hair, and gold twisting about his staff, and Jack's stumbling across the ice-glass lake and diving head-long into the proffered embrace.

It's his first hug, and he'd never known it would be so wonderful. Not since the Moon pulled him from the lake has he been _warm_, and though he looks, there's not a speck of _cold dark fear_ anywhere — outside _or_ in. Bashful, he glances up into gold gold eyes to offer thanks...

_He has no words._

But the tiny man, the golden man, his dreamt of friend, only smiles wider as the gold glow above his head flickers in dizzying display. And though he makes not a sound — Jack understands him perfectly.

(neither do i.)

~o~

_**End Notes:** Yay for Sandy! Next part is full of fluff! Ugh, hide from the fluff!_

_A single line is snitched from Nightlight's lullaby in _The Man in the Moon_. And Esse's brain has lost all elasticity; it needs sleep, not more caffeine. Huh. If you're strictly reading the story, kindly stop here, gather all personal belongings, and please head towards the designated exits. Reviews = love = Esse drinking more coffee and getting less sleep - but it's a sacrifice she's willing to make!_

_Many heartfelt yawn-filled thanks to _Sakon76, LostInMyMind98, BlizzardBorn, TheBeingOfEverything, untamabledragon144, hisokauzumaki, Yami no Ryu, CHiKa-RoXy, Master Li, Invader Lye_ and _Kaylessa_ for their reviews. Great, giant huggles to you all! ^^;; Will I lose respect if I admit that your reviews are the absolute highlight of my day?_

_I think all of us, even the youngest watchers of the movie, are struck by the incredible unfairness of what Jack's been put through. And some write fanfic to try to fix the unfairness — and some of us write fanfic to try to explain the unfairness — and the final third write fanfic in an ultimately useless attempt at understanding such a deep level of cruelty tucked inside _RotG_. Or maybe that's just me._

_Oh, one last thing before I sleep... I'm truly humbled by the "one of the best" reviews. I think of this story as odd, and depressing — but I'm filled with pride at the thought of other people getting true enjoyment out of reading it. If I haven't named you by name, thank you!_


	8. sand

In The Silence

~8~

He's warm. Warm, and surrounded by gold. Trickles of gold, streamers of gold, sheets of shimmering, shining gold that wrap around him and over him and through him. Two arms hold him, pulling him close, and while he thinks he should feel trapped — all he feels is _safe_. He doesn't know how long he's there, in _warm_ and _gold_ and _safe_; he's never understood time; time doesn't flow for Jack, it jumps and skips and goes wandering off on its own, leaving him behind until winter's return.

Jack wonders if he's still dreaming, because he doesn't completely understand sleep, either. He knows that he'd _been_ sleeping — the cruel-kind lady had seen to that — and he supposes the strange, scary, twisting world that had looped about him had been a _dream_, but he distinctly remembers waking up. He's fairly certain he remembers waking up. But _warm_ and _gold_ and _safe_ do not seem to belong to the waking reality of a _cold dark fear_ child.

The small, peculiar man is still smiling at him, _at him_, smiling with sleepy, crinkled eyes. Smiling with the comforting envelopment of his hug. The little, golden man is _made_ of a smile; a smile, a wish... and sand.

And it is sand that convinces Jack that he's no longer dreaming. Sand is outside his experience; he had not known what sand _was_ before it had caught him up in its embrace. A speck of unease surfaces — because how could his spell have brought him a friend of sand, when all he knew of friends was his poor, lost moonbeam?

He wants to ask. _He wants to ask._ The question fills his mouth, but there are no words, only the jaggedness of the unbreakable broken thing deep inside. His grasp on his staff tightens in frustration — and for the briefest fraction of a second the staff glows gold instead of blue, but it's lost completely in the hazy drift of sand surrounding them both.

A picture forms in the sand above the golden man's head, the image of a frost child and a sand man hand in hand. (friends,) is Jack's assurance, and while the embrace is loosened, it's not withdrawn completely. (friends need no words.)

The sand is mounding beneath them, a billowing, glowing cloud that lifts them from the ground. Lifts them above the tree tops, high above the lake; lifts them until the earth is spread out below like some lumpy, patchwork quilt. Jack's never before been so high — had never before known it was _possible_ to be so high... Shouldn't they have hit the ceiling of the starry night sky?

The man of sand laughs, beautiful boisterous laughter for all that it's perfectly silent. He releases Jack from his _warm gold safe_ hug, but keeps a steady hand on his shoulder, exactly where his Snowflake used to rest.

The Wind whips around them, uncertain, and its uncertainty spreads to Jack. It's the Wind's job, it's the Wind's _privilege_, to carry Jack; how can sand support him? _How can a cloud made of wisps and wishes support him? _As the uncertainty grows, Jack begins to sink, down and through the golden sand cloud.

With a tsking flicker of his fingers, the man of sand wraps his hand around Jack's arm — _and later, much much later, Jack will wonder how so small of a hand could have such a firm grip_ — and slowly, deliberately pulls him back to the top of the cloud. His smile never falters, if anything, grows wider, and he gestures grandly at the world spread out below them.

(dreams are as real as you make them. all you need do is believe.)

Jack does not know if he believes in dreams. He's still not sure what a dream is supposed to be. And he thinks he's had one — but if that was a dream, then he'd really rather stay away from them. Unless, _unless_ the dream had brought him his new friend, in which case he'll willingly put up with the terror and the guilt and the rat. _For a friend._

He's being hugged again; pulled close and comforted by the man of sand, and his memories of _wicked yellow mad_ are pushed aside as streamers of gold dance about in the shapes of Snowflakes and swift, darting fish. He reaches out to touch. _Any child would reach out to touch._ A minnow nibbles at the tip of his outstretched finger, and he watches, watches as the fish swims down the golden strand to a house far, far below on the patchwork world.

There's a look of mild surprise on the man's smiling face, but no alarm, and he claps in silent approval of Jack's initiative. Tentatively, Jack smiles back; tries for a smile as happy and warm as the one before him, but it feels odd on his face. Raising pale fingers flecked with gold, Jack touches his mouth and discovers a smile much smaller than he was expecting. So small, in fact, that it is hiding in the start of a frown. And the frown grows as his fingers trace the curves of his lips, wondering where his smile has gone.

Golden fingers wrap around his own, and gently pull them away before he can claw at his face in search of the missing smile.

(do you see? do you see how wonderful the world is?)

_It's a distraction,_ but the world is _huge_, and Jack leans out over the cloud and stares down at moonlit forests and mountains, down at houses with bright, welcoming windows, at villages and towns and _how_ could there be so many people in the world? There must be _hundreds_ of them! And children! Dozens of children to play with!

The man of sand is laughing, but it's _with_ Jack, not at him. Laughing in excitement; at possibility. _Laughing in joy._

(go on, then.)

He wants to thank the man — wants another _warm gold safe_ hug — but there's an odd, prickling feeling in his eyes that he doesn't like. Instead, he leaps from the gold sand cloud; lets the eager Wind catch him and tumble him about. Then... then... he's not sure how it happened, but his arms are around the little golden man _tight hold tight to the only warmth in the world and he never wants to let go_ and his head is pressed underneath his golden chin, and a scattering of hail is falling upon the man's golden feet.

He feels a hand — a small, strong hand — stroking his hair, and underneath his cheek he feels the _not_beat of a _not_heart.

(i know. i know. go play, frost child.)

So Jack lets go, and falls back into the Wind. And he watches as the man of sand floats away on his cloud of sand and dreams, all surrounded in a celebration of swirling gold. Jack sinks lower, lower than the mountains, lower than the tree tops, but he keeps his gaze turned towards the sky until the very last glimmer of gold is lost to the night.

His feet touch down upon his lake — and he can tell his smile has returned from wherever it has been hiding. He doesn't need to touch it to know it's there. It's winter...

_...and there are children to play with._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ And so Jack's world begins to expand ^_^ That, and Jack _really_ doesn't understand time. More years have passed than you might realize ^_~ Because _Jack_ doesn't realize. He knows about seasons, but no one's explained years to him. Yet._

_For those uninterested in babble, thank you so much for reading! And if'n you're feeling charitable, please feel free to donate a review to the _Make Esse Smile! Foundation_. Otherwise, see you tomorrow for the next part!_

_Many thanks to _Bookworm Gal, Shamise, Master Li, baichan, Kaylessa, Anne Camp aka Obi-quiet_ and _Anon_ for their reviews. Huggles and best wishes that you all have a wonderful day!_

_Finally, to keep my responses short... Quite a few people are noticing my slight grudge against Moon. And I have to say, I have nothing against MiM in the books. Nothing at all. He's a wonderful character; absolutely delightful. He gathers together a group of special people to help protect the children of the world, and that's really sweet. The movie, though?_

_Okay, if I'm going to be flamed for anything, it's going to be this. Firstly, I love _RotG_. It is officially my all time favorite movie of all time ever! Which used to be _Groundhog Day_, but now isn't, because _RotG_ is love. However... Let me give you a re-imagining of the movie, if you will. One small, twisted facet. Please go to my UL to read _**THE EXTREME (-ly sarcastic) RotG HIGH SCHOOL AU OMAKE!** _that explains in a hopefully fun manner why Esse has a problem with Movie!Moon. Then come back and flame me, 'kay?_


	9. anger

In The Silence

~9~

The first time — is daunting. With the Wind's help he climbs to the top of a tall, creaking pine. Overhead the Moon is bright, but he's upset with Moon, and he thinks he'll ignore the meddler for a while. Moonbeams frolic around him, constantly asking _'Why why why?'_ but with a bit more effort he ignores them as well, for they aren't his Snowflake — and they never will be. Their attention is almost enough to drive him back down the tree. Almost. But he needs to see — _not a speck of gold, he's _not_ looking for gold, except, perhaps, maybe he is_ — the patchwork quilt of earth once more.

The lights of his village are directly ahead, but then, where else should they be? It's _other_ lights he's looking for. Other windows in other towns — behind which slept other children to play with. Dozens and dozens of children, and Jack bites down on his lip as he _believes_ with all his might that those children will see him.

_He needs a child to see him._

The twinkling lights of his village, though, are all that are in view. He needs to be higher. He implores the Wind, and after a brief, considering hesitation, the Wind lifts him up, and together they soar towards the stars, so swiftly the moonbeams are left behind, crying out softly, _'Why why why?'_ And Jack has never known why; all he's ever known is one all-encompassing need.

_He wants to play with the children._

Here is the patchwork quilt he's been seeking. He's so very high — and the land is so very dark below him. It's confusing, and he cranes his neck looking for Moon, but clouds now cover the sky. Grey, snow swollen clouds that aren't his shadow — but they could be. They _want_ to be. They want his attention _he hates his shadow_ but the Wind understands, and carries him further away.

It's then he sees it: The town, so much larger than his village; there are more houses than he can count, even using the fingers of both hands — and his hands are shaking. They're shaking, and he grips his staff tighter to calm them. He doesn't know why they're shaking; there are children, sleeping behind the windows, new children to play with...

He jerks his head back in the direction he's come from, and glares at the clouds in the distance. He'll never let his shadow sneak up on him again. Not when he's playing. Not when there's children playing. Hands now calm — _they can't move at all, frozen to his staff_ — he jumps from the back of the Wind and falls towards the town, landing with impossible delicacy on a broad window sill.

It's a landing a snowflake would make, but the comparison _makes his hands shake_ is one he doesn't want to dwell on, so he peers through the shutters, instead.

There are children inside, sound asleep. _New_ children. Curling up against the window, Jack watches them — and thinks about sleep. He's never _really_ thought about sleep — _before_. And he doesn't understand the appeal — _who would want to dream?_ — that sends children and even adults to their beds each and every night. Sleep steals away his children, but sleep has something to do with the small _warm gold safe_ man, so Jack settles in to wait for dawn.

Eventually the sun rises, a weak, pale sun that can barely make its way above the horizon; a perfect winter sun. And Jack has jumped from window to window _and his hands aren't shaking, not at all_ watching the children, waiting for them to wake, and come outside, and _play_. _He_ needs to _play_. There's a snowball in his hands, a perfect snowball waiting for the perfect opportunity, and when a young boy bends over to adjust the laces on his boots, the snowball splats perfectly against the back of his head.

"Hey!" The boy whirls, and glares at his brothers. "What did you do that for?"

They're fighting. The children are fighting. Snowballs are thrown, but so are angry insults and hard, hurting fists, and it's _horrible_. Jack tries to stop them, tries to pull them apart, but he can't _touch_ them; the children are _bleeding_ and it's all. his. fault.

He wants his lake.

_He doesn't want to play any more. He doesn't want to play, not ever again._

The Wind blasts down, separating the children; buffeting them; forcing them back into their homes. And Jack's shadow is everywhere, scouring away crimson until only white remains. And Jack — doesn't care. He _wants_ his shadow to rage.

He wants to go _now_.

The Wind snatches him from the ground, and he gladly goes with it. It carries him back to his lake, back to his _place_ and he dives under the ice, where he huddles under the comforting weight of frigid water and _believes believes believes_ until his hands stop shaking. Until his _soul_ stops trembling.

When Jack finally ventures back atop the ice, he doesn't know a week has passed. He only knows that he wants _his_ children. He wants to hear his children laughing. _He wants his first general of winter._

There's singing in the village square, and his children are not playing. Not playing — but they're happy, cheeks rosy with cold and eyes bright with joy. They're singing, young voices rising and falling sweetly as he weaves between them, entranced. His children have _changed_, gotten taller, gotten... gotten... Why, one is so different, Jack might've mistaken him for an adult, instead!

And he doesn't understand it, this _change_ in his children — but they're happy, even his quietest child, who hums under her breath instead of singing — so he puts it from his mind.

He wants to sing with them; opens his mouth to sing, but the unbreakable broken thing catches sharply, painfully in his chest, and his tongue floods with lake water instead. He rubs at the ache until something shifts beneath his fingers, and the pain fades as the children's voices rise in a grand crescendo.

His children then return to their houses, giggling and chattering — but not interested in snow. And though Jack feels the children's happiness as his own... it's not enough. There's a thrumming under his skin, an electric current urging him to action, a _need_ as vital as breathing that must be fulfilled...

_He needs to play._

The Wind takes him over the eastern mountains, and there, at a settlement of two lonely cabins nestled at the base of the foothills, he spends the afternoon with a boy, and his sled. Jack can not help with the boy's struggle uphill, but the Wind doesn't mind taking part of the burden — and for one magical hour the boy gleefully rides his sled both downhill and _up_.

The Wind takes him to the north, where a town is perched upon a lake too large to comprehend — an ocean of a lake. The children there are hard at work, busy with curious tasks involving nets and fish, and they have no time for play. Still, he peers through their windows, and a trio of girls busy with sewing briefly stop, and stand to admire the frost pattern he's left on the thick, bubbled glass.

The Wind takes him west to a snowball fight, a fierce battle between two siblings. They accept his help without question, grabbing up snow and tossing it as quick as he can bring it down. He isn't sure which side wins — only knows that by the end the two children are laughing, sprawled next to each other, watching the Moon break through the scattering clouds.

The Wind takes him many, many places, and there are children in all of them. And Jack plays with them; plays carefully, plays gently, always keeping watch for his shadow. But no matter how many houses he visits, no matter how many children he plays with, no matter _how hard he tries_ he remains unseen. Unknown. _be not._

_He wants to go home._

Jack lands in the village square; stumbles before catching himself with his staff. He's so terribly tired _and he doesn't want to play any more._ The Wind is whispering to him, a liquid gurgle with the first faint trace of green-growing, and he knows that spring is impatient. First, though, he needs to check on his quietest child. He'll be able to rest, once he knows she's well. His general — is all that will ever matter.

He walks over to her window to look in — but she's already staring out. Staring out, glaring out with puffy, reddened eyes, and her cheeks are wet with tears. Jack presses his hands against the glass, _terrified_; the girl's tears are _grinding_ the razor-edges of the unbreakable broken thing inside him; the girl's tears are _agony_ and he needs to stop them _right now_ before _cold dark fear_ overruns the world.

She needs to stop crying. He _needs_ to hear her laughter. Her tears burn worse than the sun, and _please_ he'll give anything to make. her. smile. _please please please please please._ Frantic, he feathers her window in frost; in snowflakes and moonbeams and the smooth surface of his lake — all the most wonderful things he knows.

"I hate you!" the girl-child screams, slapping at his artwork as fresh tears appear. "I'm so tired of winter! Why? Why?! Why won't you just go away?"

He can't. Move. _she hates him._ He can't. Breath. _she hates him._ He can't. can't. can't...

The girl's mother is behind her, holding the child close, but she's struggling, _wailing_, smacking her fists against the window in rage. "I wish it didn't exist! I wish it would leave, and never **ever** return! Why, Mama, why?"

Why? He'd never known why...

She continues to flail at the window, chanting the same three words, over and over _and over and over_ and deeper and _deeper_ and deeper and _deeper_.

"I hate you!"

"I hate you!"

"I HATE YOU!"

Jack's at the edge of his lake. _Hadn't he just been in town?_ He's at the edge of his lake, and he's choking, there's _something tearing him apart inside._ He gags, lake water spilling from his lips. _When had he left the town?_ His fingers scrabble through ice and snow — but there's mud underneath. Mud. It means something. Something important...

Jack's at the edge of his lake, and he doesn't know what to believe in. He doesn't want to slip beneath the water, so _cold_, so _dark_, so _alone_. He doesn't want to crawl into the hollow beneath the log, so _hot_, so _bright_, so _alone_. He doesn't want — to be. _Alone._ He wants his Snowflake moonbeam. He wants — to be wanted.

_please!_

He leaps into the air — and for the very first time, he outruns the Wind. He outruns the Moon. He runs, and he runs, _seeking seeking seeking_ gold.

There, in the distance, is a beautiful, twisting glitter of sand. There, trailing the leading edge of night, is the man of sand on his cloud of wisps and dreams. They're _right_ there — but Jack doesn't know how to ask. He has no words to ask. He crumples, collapsing around his staff, caught between _be not_ and _hate_.

_please. please. please. I don't want to be alone._

There are small, golden arms around him, so _warm_, so _safe_ he has no choice but to sigh into sleep.

_But he never wants to play again._

~o~

_**End Notes:** Oh, Jack. Why did you have to go visit on the anniversary of your death? Sniff._

_Many heartfelt thanks to savedbygrace94, Zarelyn, SugarSweetObsessed, Crystal Peak, Alaia Skyhawk, ForgetTheWalls97, Raifiel, Kichi Hisaki, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, fourty-eight and Hannah for their reviews. They are my motivation for continuing ^_^_

_If you're here strictly for the story, I'll see you back here tomorrow. Please leave a review on your way out if you're so inclined. Please feel free to ask questions if you're so inclined. And please note that there's a drabble contained within the notes below ^_~ Y' know, to read, if you're so inclined._

_Okay, I still have Cranky Old Jack running around my head, complaining that he gets no respect. So, Cranky Ancient Immortal Teenage Angst-Monster Jack homage ahoy._

~o~

"Are you sure this is necessary, Aster?" Jack asked, as he watched the caravan wind its way through the snow-choked mountain pass.

"No, I am not sure, though I _am_ entirely certain." Bunnymund laid a large paw on his shoulder, offering support. "You needn't feel responsible. It would have happened regardless."

"It should not happen while I'm here! I can _stop_ it!"

"And destroy this world's only chance of defeating the Nightmare King? Besides, this has already happened. You _know_ this, Jack." The Pooka sighed wearily, and tightened the grip he had on his friend's shoulder. "At least you can save one."

A horse, impatient with the heavy wagon behind it, gave a loud whinny — and triggered an avalanche. Tons of melt-heavy snow poured down upon the caravan, burying it completely.

"I could have _stopped_ it," Jack spat out before racing down the mountain side. He could sense the panicked heartbeats of those trapped below, feel their warmth flicker and fade. Teeth bared in a snarl, Jack reached deeply down into the packed snow — and pulled out a child.

"Is he breathing?" Bunnymund asked, appearing at his side. "Is he alright, Jack?"

"Alright? He's an orphan, Aster." Cradling the child, Jack puffed an icy breath against the toddler's face, prompting the boy into a startled inhalation. Before the child could let out his breath in a protesting wail, Jack pulled him close, offering what comfort he could; a kiss to the crown of his head, a reassuring hand rubbing gentle circles into his back. "Lunar has asked too much of me this time. I do not care what the future _man_ may do; this is a _child_ we're abandoning."

"You'll never abandon him, Jack. I know. You'll watch over him, safeguard him — and when he finally sees you, he'll know the father of his heart."

"He'll know the fell shadow that robbed him of his family. He'll see the thief that stole his childhood." Jack placed another soft kiss on the boy's head, as the toddler yawned and drifted towards sleep. "Winter may be my dominion, Aster, but cruelty is in neither of our natures."

"Jack..."

"Tsar Lunar may have foreseen great things for St. North. You yourself say you've witnessed the deciding battle." Jack sighed, adjusting his grip on both his staff and the boy, before stepping lightly into the freshening air. "All I have is Nicholas, whom you've bid me leave on the other side of the Crimeans. Alone. He will come to hate winter, Aster, for all that it's taken from him.

"He will hate me with a passion."

"No, Jack," the Pooka whispered, knowing his friend would not hear him over the rising gale. "He will love you as a son." Bunnymund knew, for he'd already seen it. As Katherine's compass unerringly pointed towards North, so North's compass would lead him always towards the heart of winter. Always.

~o~

_Okay, I'm basing this off of my timeline — at the latest date at which the books could occur, which would place North's birth somewhere in the early 1750's. Given the time period, the only Cossacks he could have joined were the Zaporizhian Host, and they were disbanded in 1764 by Catherine II. Interesting. That narrows North's age to 24 in the books, give or take. Works for me!_


	10. rest

In The Silence

~10~

He wakes up to softness. Fine-grained, tickling softness running through his hair and trickling through his cloak, soft gold weaving between his fingers and bunching up underneath his feet as he wriggles his toes and _stretches_ against warmth. He turns to his side, and rubs his face against the sand; reaches out to pet and stroke the swirling streamers into vague, shapeless shapes that morph before his eyes into swimming, leaping creatures he has no name for.

Perhaps sleeping isn't so bad, if waking could always be like this. Perhaps this is what dreaming is supposed to be. He doesn't know, but the not knowing doesn't bother him. He really can't be bothered to be bothered.

A silent giggle escapes him, and the strange, swimming creatures turn back into sand. He rolls over to his back, and sits. Sits, and looks about, rubbing sleep out of _in to_ his eyes. He's _inside_ a room, a room of sand that sparkles and shines of wisps and dreams. A room with a window — and Jack can't help but to giggle again, for he's never been _inside_. Imagine, a frost child inside a house!

With his staff dragging a soft path behind him, Jack walks to the window — no shutters, no glass, how strange to find a window that doesn't want to keep him out — and stares. Stares at the castle of sand around him. Stares at the island of sand below him. Stares and stares and _dreamily_ stares at the ocean stretching from one horizon to the other, so vast and deeply blue.

He _doesn't_ hear a noise at the door to the room; turning away from the unwindowish window, he shyly smiles at the man of sand. Smiles at the man made of smiles, and ever-so-slowly wraps his own, cold fingers around the golden hand held out to him.

With an undemanding tug, the man of sand urges him from the room and down long halls of sand and shell. Jack trails behind him, as he's seen other children trail behind their parents. He wonders at that, and bites at his lower lip; wonders if he should stop holding the little man's hand, for a _cold dark fear_ child has no parents. He _wonders_... but he doesn't let go.

The man leads him out of the castle, and there on the rolling dunes of the sandy island waits an army of seashells wielding wickedly pointed spears — but Jack isn't afraid of them, for the hand clasped around his own is _warm_ and _gold_ and _safe_. Together, they walk amongst the shells — countless shells murmuring the countless secrets of countless children — down to the beach and the blue-deep ocean.

There are maidens in the water, playing in the surf and resting amidst the tide pools; maidens like minnows, all quick, flashing scales seen in brief glimpses between seaweed strands of long, silken hair. They're singing with voices like the wash of waves, welcoming the man of sand back.

"Welcome home, Sandman, oh dream king, Lord High Protector, who's this you bring?"

The man of sand — _Sandman, Sandman_ — forms a picture of a frost child above his head, a frost child like a snowflake. Jack senses, though, that the minnow maidens have no experience of winter, not here on a sandy, sleepy isle so far away from seasons. The maidens splash through the surf before pulling themselves ashore, surrounding him curiously and patting him with kind, damp hands that smell of salt.

"Oh, a star-child, yes, we see! Welcome, child. Welcome, be!"

They envelop Jack in sea-scented hugs that he returns eagerly, needily. Sandman smiles at them all, at seashells and minnow maidens and misplaced frost child, and all the world is aglow in gold.

(welcome, child. well come, and rest. rest, and find a dream.)

Jack plays with the maidens along the Dreamsand shore, and sleeps in the high, open room of the Dreamsand castle, there on the island of Sleepy Sands that has never known a season — only slumber. And when Sandman leaves on his cloud of wisps and dreams — _as he must, as he is meant to do _— the maidens sing to Jack of far away places and far away things.

And when he is all alone, when even the seashells are too busy to play, he steadily paces the seashore, the swinging of his staff frosting the golden sand underfoot — frost that stays past the ebb and rise of the tide. He stares up at the Moon — but the Moon is always looking away, always away, too afraid to face up to past mistakes. He wants to shout at the Moon, but the stars are so much higher than the Wind can lift him, and what good would it do? The Moon is as mute as he is.

And when the need to scream is so great that icy water froths upon his lips, he runs down the spiraling arms of the island to where the sleepiest sands crest in golden dunes, and he flings himself upon them, burrowing in, burrowing deeply into sleep and dreams of minnows and Snowflakes — and his first general of winter — but never of lakes or loneliness or _rats_.

Then, one twilight morning, he awakes to a yearning he recognizes. Somewhere, winter is calling him. Somewhere — there are children, waiting to play. And though he's dreamt so many dreams of _play_ and _children_ and _being_, he knows he won't be seen. _He will never be seen._ He expects the knowledge to hurt — and it does — but the pain is bearable, grown familiar, grown... grown... _grown into a different shape, with fewer sharp edges, worn down from frequent handling._

He's grateful to the maidens and the seashells, he's grateful to Sandman _whom he loves, daren't love, can a snowflake love?_ for giving him rest — but he needs to leave. Winter is calling. Children are calling. The Wind wraps around him, and together they take to the sky, heading towards clouds with bellies full of snow, leaving the island far, far behind.

He would have liked to have stayed. But being gone from the world such a long, endless time has taught him another truth. Children play — and children play tricks — and Jack Frost _is_ a child. A child of frost, but a child nonetheless — and he has no choice, but to play. Though his heart might _break..._

_He must play._

It is a terrible truth — a _cold dark fear_ of a truth — but Jack doesn't dwell upon it. He can't dwell upon it, for as soon as he thinks it, it's swallowed down into the empty darksome pitch pit of his memories.

Besides, the Wind is carrying him, fast and fast and faster into winter — and he hears the call. He hears his first general of winter _calling_ for him. _Wishing_ for him. _Wanting_ him.

"Mama, do you think it will ever snow again? ...I miss seeing the pictures in the frost."

~o~

_**End Notes:** Aww. I'm thinking Jack needs a Sandy hand puppet to keep him company from now on. He just, uh, hid it during the movie. Yeah._

_Many humble, grateful thank yous to _lokoforsonic9559, Alaia Skyhawk, angelofthelightanddark, Anne Camp, Anonymous_ reader, _Crystal Peak, Hannah, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Eternal She-Wolf, ForgetTheWalls97, Kaylessa, fourty-eight, and Master Li_ for their extremely kind (and truly cherished) reviews. Your support gives me the strength to forge on in the story._

_If you're reading only the story, I'll see you tomorrow with the next part — if I can find some place with wifi :) It's loaded in the document manager, so if I can find access, you'll have the next chapter =D If you'd like to give Esse the determination to continue on through all the angst to the bright fluffy rainbow end o.O;; (durp) your review would be appreciated. Actually, your review will make my day!_


	11. boy

In The Silence

~11~

Jack's return to the village is greeted with cheers. Oh, he knows the children aren't cheering _him_; never _him_, _whoever would be happy to greet a frost child?_ —Besides a man of sand; besides sing-song minnow maidens, but Jack doesn't add them to his reckoning, because they aren't _children_, and it's _children_ that matter for reasons he's not yet figured out. But there are cheers as the snow falls plump and thick over the village square, and his children rush out of brown-grey houses as fast as they can pull on boots and mittens and cloaks.

Well, they _feel_ like his children, but as Jack rushes around the square, frost filling in for footprints, he can't help but be confused. They _feel_ like his children — but they're so big! And there are _new_ children, small children, that he's never met before, and it's those he takes particular delight in. He tugs at their sleeves, spinning them around on cobbles — _cobbles? had there always been cobbles? _— grown slick with ice, and they wobble and fall upon padded bottoms with gleeful shrieks and whooping laughs. Other children, _bigger_ children that he'd mistake for adults _if he didn't know better_ are laughing as well, and helping the small ones back to their feet.

And there, _there_ coming out of her house is his general of winter! He would know her _anywhere_, even if she's now as tall as him... and holding the hand of a young brown-haired brown-eyed boy. She kneels down in front of the boy, and Jack crouches down as well, because there's something here he _doesn't understand_ and he _wants_ to understand but the only thing his memory dredges up is the sound of cracking ice.

"Isn't the snow beautiful?" his general asks the brown on brown boy, her gloved hand tousling his hair. "I remember when it used to snow like this; snowy days were the most magical days of all." She's carefully wrapping a knitted muffler — _Jack knows this muffler, __**knows**__ it and he loses his footing on the ice; falls to his knees but doesn't notice, all he can focus on is the __**muffler**_ — around the boy's neck, and the girl-child's smile is both wistful and radiant.

"There you go! That should keep you plenty warm." Tears are sparkling from her lashes, but her smile never dims. "Ready to have a little fun?"

He's dropped his staff. Scrabbling through snow and ice he finds it, and holds it tightly to his chest where the unbreakable broken thing throbs in time with his gasping breaths. He doesn't understand why his girl would give away her muffler, give it away to a brown brown child she's picking up with the easy grace of a _mother_ and _he doesn't understand_ but she's _smiling at the snow_ and saying...

"What would you like to do first, Jack boy?"

He's at his lake, his ice-glass lake, and it looks so _small_ now that he's played in the ocean. He's at his lake, sitting cross-legged atop his slender staff, staring up at the Moon. He's trying to understand. He's not sure if there's understanding to be had — but he'd like a little, if at all possible. Not that the Moon's ever granted any of his requests, _not a single one..._ but still...

He was Snowflake's Jack boy. Snowflake moonbeam, his first and ever friend. Could... Could it be his girl is a moonbeam, needing a Jack boy of her very own? _It's possible_, he thinks, his unblinking stare never leaving the smiling, smug face of the Moon. At times the girl _glows_ exactly like a moonbeam. But if she were a moonbeam...

...then he would gladly be _her_ Jack boy. It's been so _long_ since he's been _anyone's_ Jack boy. He sighs, unaccountably weary, and swings down from the crook of his staff, letting his heels slide lazily back and forth across the ice. Maybe, _just maybe_, there's a different Jack for every moonbeam. Maybe, _just maybe_, that's why he couldn't be hers — because he always and forever will be _Snowflake's_ Jack boy. If that were the case, _if it were_, then he wouldn't begrudge his general her Jack.

Even if he _was_ a brown brown roly-poly clumsy Jack boy, wrapped snugly in a scarf that wasn't _his_.

Jack visits children in far away towns — because seeing the other Jack boy, the _not him_ Jack boy, out in the snow seems to attract the malevolent interest of his shadow. He plays games with the other children — and occasional tricks, because it's _funny_ the way they mince across ice or jump after hats that the Wind teasingly plucks from their heads, and Jack has discovered that his laughter helps keep his shadow at bay. But he's always careful, so _extraordinarily_ careful to keep his tricks small, and he _always always always_ stops the moment one of the children shows the least sign of upset.

Every evening, though, finds him back in the village square, peering through the window at his girl-child and her Jack boy, because he needs to make sure they are _safe_ and _happy_ and _there_. And every night before returning to his lake he sits on the rooftops of the snow-capped houses, struggling against the jagged shards in his chest to find words, _any words at all_, because there's so much he wants to say, so much he wants to _ask_, but not even the tiniest '_Why?_' can make it past the unbreakable broken _thing_ stuck inside him.

_Why does he care?_

_Why must he play?_

_...Why wasn't he **enough**?_

The Moon, unwilling to face his questions, dips down below the horizon, and every night Jack returns to his lake — defeated.

~o~

_**End Notes:** Short part, but that's where it wanted to end. Oh well. Wai! Jack still has no understanding of time. Poor, poor Jack boy. I've purposefully left vague if the little boy is a son, or a new brother. Me, I'm leaning towards brother; it was common at the time to reuse a name, especially if the name was of familial importance, so it's not out of the realm of reason that Jack's parents would have named a new son after their lost one. You, though, are free to come to your own conclusions ^_^_

_Many humble and heartfelt thanks to _Eternal She-Wolf, FyreFlyte, hisokauzumaki, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Crystal Peak, JediClaire, Bookworm Gal, Alaia Skyhawk, anonymous hi,_ another _anonymous _reviewer ^_^, UVNight_, Clio Ying, Jenniyah, fourty-eight, DoomCabbit,Beanatrix LeString, Kaylessa, Master Li, _and_ Anne Camp _for your reviews, which absolutely made a very trying time away from home better. Your support and encouragement have me attempting to write the next part curled uncomfortably in a hotel chair when I should be trying to grab a few hours of sleep. I don't think I'll get the part written, since my laptop keyboard is laughable in a laugh-until-I-cry way — but I am trying!_

_If you're reading only for the story, thank you for stopping by! Even if you don't have time or inclination to leave a review, I'm happy if my story was able to entertain you for a few minutes. Have a jolly grand day — or at least one better than mine lol!_


	12. rabbit

In The Silence

~12~

It's night, and Jack is sitting atop the crook of his staff, swinging his legs and admiring the frost drawing taking up the entire surface of his lake. It's night, and the Moon is particularly bright, but Jack knows better than to think Moon's paying him any particular attention. The Moon shines for others — but not for a regretted, forgotten frost child. It's night, clear and cold and perfectly still — but Jack would much prefer it to be day, with children out and about to play with.

"Well," a deep, melodious voice breaks the stillness of the night — and Jack isn't so much startled as he is confused, because it almost sounds like the voice is talking to _him_. "I wasn't expecting to find you here. That is, if I were to find you _anywhere_, in all likelihood it would be here, but generally you're always where I _least_ expect you. Quite unexpected of you, Jack. As expected."

The voice _is_ speaking to him, and the _voice_ is coming from an impossibly tall rabbit regarding him through grass-green oval spectacles. A rabbit wearing a flowing green robe and carrying an egg-tipped staff. A rabbit that is far, _far_ taller than him — _even sitting atop his staff, and that's unnerving, because he's always been taller than the tallest adults, when he's balancing on his staff _— as it steps onto the ice of his lake and approaches, footsteps smudging his frost drawing beyond recognition. Jack's not sure if he should run or giggle, and settles for pointing a moonpale finger at his face in question.

"Who else would I be speaking to?" the rabbit huffs, grimacing. "Really, Jack... Oh." Coming to a stop next to him, close enough for Jack to admire the golden sheen of the buttons on his silk-smooth robe, the rabbit twitches its nose in vexation. "Sorry, my mistake; I forgot that _you_ haven't met me yet. Or, yes, you're meeting me _now_, and I've met you plenty of times, but this will be _your_ first time... and I fear I've made a poor first impression. Chocolate?"

_Jack's not sure what the rabbit wants. _Its holding out a paw in which rests several brightly colored, miniature eggs. He wants to touch the intriguing eggs _not eggs_ — they're so very tempting, with colors like the wildflowers that appear to herald spring — but the rabbit's ears are set at an alarming angle, and the rabbit is _huge_ and _looming_, so Jack laces his fingers underneath his chin to keep them out of trouble. And shrugs.

"Hmph! Never thought I'd see the day _you_ didn't want chocolate!" Thumping his foot on the ice hard enough to send a shiver racing up Jack's staff, the rabbit drops the _chocolate_ back into one of the numerous pockets decorating its robe. "Really, Jack, you might have _warned_ me our first meeting was terribly awkward. I could have prepared! Too late for that now." Clearing his throat, the rabbit once more extends his paw — this time empty of chocolate _not eggs_. "I'm Bunnymund. E. Aster Bunnymund, to be precise."

_Jack's not sure what the rabbit wants_, with its paw held out so expectantly. He feels no need to _hold_ its paw — it doesn't seem like a paw in need of holding. Jack is, though, tired of craning his head to look up at the rabbit, and _perhaps_ the rabbit is tired of staring _down_ at him, so with a small, agile jump Jack leaps from his staff to the rabbit's palm, where he sits with his chin resting upon his knees and his arms wrapped tightly about his legs, and _yes_... It's far more comfortable being at eye level.

Bunnymund seems taken aback, though, if the nose twitching and ear twitching and foot thumping is anything to go by. "_Quite_ unexpected. Quite..." He lifts his palm higher — lifts _Jack_ higher — and subjects him to intense scrutiny. "...I would swear there's nothing in my hand. I don't feel _anything_ except a spot of cold. Why, there's no weight to you at all!"

_The weight of a snowflake. How much should a frost child weigh?_

"No need to scowl so. It's simply surprising. —And you still haven't introduced yourself, which isn't _as_ surprising, since you've likely already deduced that I know you. A touch rude, but when haven't you been? Actually, I find it reassuring. A bit. The very smallest bit."

Jack doesn't think he's been rude _— isn't sure what rude is_ — as the rabbit talks. And talks. And talks. He's _never_ heard so many words at once, words like a river that rush past him, leaving him dizzy and amazed. Words deep and melodious that Jack thinks he could sleep to. He'd like to try sleeping with the rabbit's words a weighty, rumbling blanket wrapped around him, almost better than sand.

"—and I'd just perfected the most fabulous chocolate infused with the oil extracted from the rinds of blood oranges picked the morning after a blue moon, when I showed up for afternoon tea. Which, as you'll come to know, is highly unusual, since I rarely visit myself after breakfast. And it turns out I didn't even _want_ tea! It's practically unheard of! In fact, I told myself that not wanting tea was like Jack Frost not wanting chocolate." A thoughtful look crosses the rabbit's face, a ripple that runs along its whiskers to the tips of its ears. "That _would_ explain why I laughed so hard...

"To the point, though. I told myself that we'd been _blind_ — that is, the other Guardians and I, and if I were _truly_ searching for a solution, then I should seek you out. That is, seek you out _here_, and not anywhen else. So," the rabbit stares at him from behind grass-green glasses with an unnerving intensity that drives all thoughts of sleep from Jack's mind. "What is it you have that we need?"

_Jack's not sure what the rabbit wants._ As far as he knows, there is _nothing_ about him that anyone needs. Who needs a _cold dark fear_ child? If the Moon's indifference is any indication, he's the _least_ needed thing in all the world — but the rabbit, the rabbit of _words_ and _more words_ doesn't understand. at. all.

"Speak **up**, Jack," Bunnymund says with a hint of annoyance. "I haven't got all night, and I certainly don't have time for your games."

With a glare Jack flips backwards off the rabbit's palm and lands lightly on the crook his staff. If this were a game, _he'd be having fun_. If this were a _game_, it wouldn't include a fussy, overgrown rabbit that could _talk_ but not _listen_. The rabbit is not a _child_, and Jack doesn't want or _need_ his attention. He wants the rabbit gone — and frost coats Bunnymund's fur as the Wind struggles to push the rabbit back towards shore.

"Enough, Jack! Enough of your tricks!"

_Tricks?_ Jack shrieks in silent outrage, angrily gesturing at his chest, his throat, his mouth. Ice incases the nearby pines — and one by one they _shatter_. The air is full of frozen splinters and the heavy scent of sap.

"Jack?" The pure, innocent light from Bunnymund's egg-tipped staff protects the rabbit from the worst of the barrage. "What are you..." He watches, as Jack slaps at the unbreakable broken thing inside him, eliciting a pained gasp as silent as his scream. Watches — and begins to understand.

"You — can't speak?"

He rolls his eyes, and turns away; turns his attention to his shadow, which is an angry, threatening mass flowing over the eastern mountains. It scares Jack, that he's allowed his shadow so close. And his pines, his stepping stones to the sky, are _ruined_ from his temper tantrum, and the shame of it is so _strong_ that he's ready to dive beneath the ice to hide.

"Not at all?" A warm, furry paw tilts his chin up, but Jack doesn't want to meet the rabbit's worried gaze. He shrugs, and lets his eyes slide back to his poor, battered pines.

"This — isn't right. Wait here, Jack. I'll be gone just a moment." Bunnymund releases the tender grip he has on Jack's chin — and disappears. Jack has time to blink, once, slowly, before the rabbit is back, a step from where he'd previously been.

"I'm so _sorry_, child." There's a look of sorrow on the rabbit's face; a deep, abiding sadness that resonates within him. _He knows this sadness._ "We _have_ been blind." Bunnymund once more reaches out his paw — and this time Jack takes it. _This_ time it's a _hand_ that wants to be held. It's a large hand, a _furry warm_ hand that completely, carefully closes around his own.

"I can't help you." Bunnymund's deep voice is rough, and thick with hurt. "This is my past, and the past can not be changed. And the me of this present... well... it's best if we don't bring that particular I into this. I wasn't... That is..." The rabbit raises his other hand, and presses a furry finger against the jagged hardness shifting at the hollow of Jack's throat; winces the same as Jack winces from the fur-light pressure.

"The next time you meet me... The first time **I** meet **you**, try not to think too poorly of me, Jack. I was so _young_ the first time we met, so angry... And your blizzard was the least of my worries, but you were the only one available to blame. Then again," the rabbit gives a small, strained, sorrow-soaked laugh, "I've changed so much since then, you might not even recognize me."

Jack doesn't know how he _wouldn't_ recognize a gigantic, babbling rabbit. _He's not that forgetful. _But there's so much pain in the rabbit's eyes, and the _furry warm_ hand holding his own is so very _very_ gentle that he's compelled to leap once more from his staff. Compelled to cling to _Aster_, to press his face against sand-soft fur, and _hug_ tightly enough to drive sadness away.

"Oh. Oh my." Fur and green silk wrap around him, and Jack matches his breathing to the slow, steady heartbeat under his ear. "You're almost worse than the monkeys," the rabbit chuckles ruefully, returning the hug. "Almost."

He wants Aster to keep talking. He wants to fall asleep to the reassuring rumble of words; fall asleep while held in the fur-warm embrace. _He wants... he wants... he wants..._

"Jack... I think it's best if you were to leave your lake — for a while. It's always winter somewhere, child. When it's summer here, head south. Far, far to the south, you'll find your winter again. And there in the south, when spring gets too close, fly north." Aster's voice is growing faint, a light thread of sound leading into dream.

"And when winter's hiding from you, head to the high places. The highest places on all the earth. There, at the very highest spot on the tallest mountain — you might gain the Moon's attention.

_"Find the Lamadary, Jack."_

~o~

_**End notes:** =D So Jack meets Bunnymund, and in another century (and then some) he'll have the chance to meet Bunny. Kindly remember that time-traveling Pookas are book canon ^_~ And if you can travel through time, there's really no reason to live through it sequentially._

Kaylessa_ has made fanart! I squee! Go look at it, because it is wonderful!_

mormongirlbyu. deviantart dot com /gallery /? catpath = scraps #/ d5nqucg

mormongirlbyu. deviantart dot com /gallery /? catpath = scraps #/ d5nqtvf

_Just get rid of the spaces and other concessions to ffnet ^o^ I wuvvles these. I wuvvles Kaylessa!_

_This was a fun chapter to write, simply because the rhythm of it was so uneven. You have Jack, so quiet and thoughtful, and then you have Bunnymund — who has much to say about everything. I suppose it may seem jarring... but that didn't stop it from being fun._

_Many heartfelt thanks to _Eternal She-Wolf, Alaia Skyhawk, Bookworm Gal, UVNight, Clio Ying, Sakon76, ForeverWillEnd, DoomCabbit, AnnLuc, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Kaylessa, Crystal Peak, Anne Camp,_ anonymous _ME, mjbaerman, blackkyu, _and_ Crysania Fay_ for their reviews. I so very much appreciate you taking the time to let me know how you're liking the story. Over 100 reviews! I huggle you all!_

_If you're strictly reading the story, I hope you enjoyed Jack's first meeting with Bunnymund. Reviews are, as always, craved ^_^ I'll see you back here tomorrow with the next part, and I hope you have a wonderful, happy joy day! Bye bye!_

_Re: Moonbeams. This story (unlike the Grumpy!Jack au) is set at the earliest interpretation of the timeline (ignoring the 200 years after remark). So, the current date is somewhere between 1716-1720, and if the books did start circa 1705 (although I'm leaning more towards 1710) it means that __—_ at this point in time _—_ most of the moonbeams are involved in the fight against Pitch. And hanging around with Nightlight. They'll start to come around more often, but by the time they do, MiM really isn't sure what to make of Jack.


	13. world

In The Silence

~13~

It is the Wind that first warns Jack of spring. Wind brings him the scent of melting ice, and the first mint-stinging hints of new green growth, as tender shoots reach out for the sun through their covering of snow. He's curious about the changes, curious that life can flourish out of death — but the Wind scoops him up when he's tempted to stay _just a while longer._ He's not sure when the Wind started taking such liberties, or when the Wind began insisting that his care was its right, and not only its privilege.

He's _no ones_ child, _no ones at all_, and the Wind disagrees. Violently. Jack voicelessly laughs as he's tossed about, whipped over and through clouds of white-mist and rain-grey, dropped and caught and dropped again over the gleaming, sun-struck expanse of the ocean, until laughter's left him breathless. He's willing to admit that the Wind might have a frost child. _If it were to have any child at all. _Yes, a frost child might be best.

But... he'd once been a moonbeam's child, and he will never stop being Snowflake's Jack boy. Even if Snowflake is gone, _gone forever_ somewhere else, Jack will never, ever forget who he belongs to — and he hopes the Wind understands.

Wind _does_ understand. Doesn't _like_ it — but _understands_. In a vague, _almost_ way; a here-and-gone again way befitting the nature of air. But the Wind isn't going to put much effort into _believing_ it. And it gives Jack pause, there above the blue-slate waters, because it's a massive truth the Wind has divulged.

Not believing is as strong of a spell as believing. Not believing is, perhaps, maybe, _definitely_ stronger than believing. Belief took effort. Belief took — _faith_. Not believing...

_Took no effort at all._

What would it take to break a spell of _not believing_? How would one go about unraveling something that did not exist in the first place? He needs to know. He _needs_ to know, because this truth, this _anti-truth_ speaks to the dark, echoing spaces in his mind; speaks in the scrabbling of a rat's claws tipped with pitch.

_What would have happened, if he had not believed, instead of believing in being not?_

The Wind shakes him, unhappy with his conclusions; shakes him and pulls him higher, high above ocean and lumpy, lumbering clouds, to a place of dazzling light and freezing cold and _his shadow is so tiny beneath him!_ He wants to laugh, but there's nothing to fill his lungs, neither air nor water, so he settles for wrapping his arms around the Wind, a Wind grown weak and indistinct and slightly _worried_ that maybe it's brought them _too_ far up.

Jack certainly doesn't know. This is _Wind's_ territory — and maybe Moon's — but it's no place for a frost child to dwell. Not where there are no children to play with. He stares down, down at the world below, a world of brown and green and blue and white. The world is as perfectly round as a dinner plate, and he can't make out a patchwork quilt at all.

Is _this_ what the Moon sees? Does Moon see a plate instead of a quilt? Is that why the Moon ignores him? Simply because he is far, far too small to see from such a great distance? Is a single frost child _this_ insignificant when all the earth is a plate?

The Wind is plunging back down, through thickening, turbulent layers of sky, and Jack holds tightly to its back, leaving his scattered thoughts behind. Together they've crossed the wide expanse of land that has only ever known the touch of summer; land in all the shades of green, and where the only touch of white is that of hot, dry desert. _South_ Aster had told him to go; south when spring begins to stir; south to winter's hiding place from summer.

The Wind sets him atop an earthen wall surrounding a small village of odd, mud-brick houses. They don't _look_ like houses to Jack, but he can sense the children inside — so houses they must be. There are children gathering around windows, staring in awe at the flakes of fluffy-soft snow beginning to blanket their town; children filling with joy as they realize that winter's come early. Children not his own _but they could so easily be_ pulling on thicker clothing before tumbling in a merry, yammering heap outside.

He plays with them. During a time of year previously regulated to the murky bottom of his lake, Jack _plays with the children._ For hours snowballs are thrown, and small, pudgy fingers draw pictures in the frost as quickly as it can flow from his staff. Children are _laughing_ and _praising_ the arrival of winter, and their words caress his skin like a blessing. In this village of mud at the bottom of the world, winter is welcomed even by the adults, who have come out to dance with palms raised to the sky in celebration.

Jack moves with the Wind from village to town, his curiosity piqued. There are people who are indifferent to his arrival, and those that spit bitter curses when they spy his artwork spreading across their windows, and even a few that fling open wide the doors of their homes in invite. _Not to him,_ he reminds himself, sorely tempted to sneak inside regardless, _but to winter itself._ It's those places he loves best, where even the adults could be mistaken for children, and the children themselves accept his small gifts with a fervor that's astonishing.

It's almost enough. _Almost._ Almost enough to convince Jack that his existence isn't a mistake.

_Almost._

The world is vast, and Jack wants to see it all — and the Wind _wants_ to show him. The Wind _wants_ his attention, the same as Jack _needs_ to play. So they travel from place to place, from land to land, until, once again, the Wind brings warning in the form of pale, pink blossoms caught in its grasp, and though Jack is tempted to stay _just a while longer..._

He knows his time playing in the south is over. For now. Now — it's time to return north, following the heady call of winter.

His toes briefly touch the waters of his lake before ice forms in thick, flowering sheets, and something reckless inside him calms as he reclaims this piece of his _self_. _His_ lake, as his staff is _his_ — his lake, his village, his _children_. He wants to go see them. He _needs_ them — but the Wind tugs at the tattered edges of his cloak, catches at his hood, and promises new adventures... If he'll only go with it.

New, fantastic places to see. The promise, the _lure_ of new children to play with. And Jack will go, he'll be more than happy to go — once he's seen his children.

But the Wind insists that they must go, _now_, and though he's hesitant — _how are his children doing?_ — Jack's inclined towards indulgence. He might not be able to be the Wind's frost child, but he can be a _friend_, and the Wind, agitated and flighty, clearly needs one. He can't imagine, _can't begin to imagine_ what might have upset the Wind, but he can sit upon its shoulder, as his Snowflake moonbeam once sat upon his, and keep the Wind company as it roars over mountains and through valleys, and _be_ there for it.

And Jack thinks he can feel a hint of Sandman's warmth, as he _works_ at being a friend.

Eventually, the Wind eases. Its carried them far, far to the north, where winter has already laid its ice-heavy hand. Even here, though, there are children. Giggling, red-cheeked children dressed in furs and merriment; children that clap in happy approval as blizzard winds change to light, fluffy snow that's _just right_ for molding into snowballs.

As Jack plays, and pulls small, careful pranks, and flits from town to village, he occasionally thinks of his village, and the children who live there. But the world is vast _beyond belief_ and he still has the Lamadary to find. Whatever a Lamadary might be. Aster told him to find it — and he will. He's sure he will...

_Sooner or later. _

The Wind wouldn't lead him astray.

~o~

_**End Notes:** Yay! Jack's not at the bottom of his lake!_

_Many grateful thanks to _lurkerlaine, RandomKrazyPerson, AutumnoColorum, Aerrow4Ever, Eternal She-Wolf, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Nefarious Seraph 13, Anne Camp, UVNight, Kaylessa, Clio Ying, Crystal Peak, Alaia Skyhawk,_ anonymous _ME, YellowXelia, ForgetTheWalls97, fourty-eight, Random Reviewer the 2nd, Master Li, blackkyu, thunder angel13_ and _mjbaerman_ for their reviews. I so very much appreciate the time you take in letting me know you're enjoying the story ^_^_

_If you're reading the chapters and nothing but the chapters, thank you so much for dropping by, and I'll see you tomorrow with the next part! Reviews will be cherished, if you've time and inclination. Huggles to all!_

_There was a tremendous response to Bunnymund; I'm thrilled that so many of you liked his appearance. For those that have read the books — you know exactly how hard it is to reconcile him with Bunny from the movie. If the movie had had Bunnymund instead... Lets just say Pitch wouldn't have made it past his first confrontation. Because..._

Bunnymund_ p.235: _'Then Bunnymund literally came flying into the room, his ears twirling with such speed that they held him aloft like a helicopter._' _

_annnnd _

Toothiana_ p.198: '_But what was most surprising — the chocolate he'd eaten had turned him into a massive, muscular warrior version of himself, and as an extra little surprise, he now had six arms, three on each side.

North frowned. "This is too odd, even for me."

"Oh, don't worry," replied Bunnymund cheerfully. "I'll go back to being bi-armed when we're done."_'_

_Yes. Bunnymund can fly with his ears (but not like Dumbo lol!) and mutate into really scary spider-rabbit of scimitar-wielding death. -_- And, a bit more Bunnymund fact: __According to Ombric (_Bunnymund_ p.63): '_"He was at least seven feet tall, wearing robes of a most peculiar design, and holding a long staff."___' and (p.204): '_The rabbit appeared to be growing before his eyes, becoming huge, then bulking, like a warrior from a mythology not yet written.___' XD So how big is huge, when he's normally at least seven feet? Give Aster enough chocolate..._

Tenshi Youkai no Yugure:_ Oh. Oh dear. I want to see that, too. It would be, like, the year 3418..._

"Hey, Aster!" Jack calls out in greeting as he jumps from the snowy branch he'd been resting on high in the ancient, dignified pine beside his lake. "What brings you to my neck of the woods? Easter isn't for another two months! ...Wait, did you finally find—"

Jack is cut off as he's caught up in a warm, snug hug of spring-soft fur and green silk; taken off guard as Aster holds him close, crooning wordlessly — and weeping.

"Hey, hey, big guy," Jack whispers quietly, running his hands reassuringly through the thick fur engulfing him. "Take it easy. Whatever happened — it can't possibly be that bad."

"It was worse than bad. It was horrible, Jack. _Terrible_. Horribly terrible. I'd no idea..."

"But you're here, now, right?" Jack asks, patting at the arms wrapped around him, and smoothing the crinkles out of shimmering silk. "That's all that counts."

"No, _you're_ here, now." Bunnymund sniffles, and rests his chin lightly, protectively on his friend's head. "And that — that is all that counts. You're **here**."


	14. story

In The Silence

~14~

Losing track of time is easy. As Jack travels from town to town, from north to south to north, there is no changing of seasons, for it is always winter. One long, ever-changing winter, filled with sights both fantastical and harrowing that fill him alternately with wonder and dread. But every day there's a new snowball fight to join, or a snow fort that needs his steadying hand, or a snow flurry that needs precise handling to get to where it will do the most good, _create the most fun_ — and time passes without his notice.

_For Jack, time holds no meaning._

He measures his days, instead, in the number of children he's played with. The number — _countless numbers_ — of children that laugh with delight in the snow _and pass right through him_. Each rejection, each innocent, ignorant _rejection_ hurts. And the unbreakable broken thing resting inside him shifts sharply with each uncontrolled flinch, until lake water is a constant hindrance upon his tongue.

_As long as he's playing, the pain holds no meaning._

When night falls, though, and Jack's too tired to chase after the day; when the children call their goodbyes to one another and head inside their warm, safe houses where Jack can not follow — then the pain rises. Pain and lake water. Some nights he'll catch a glimpse of swirling gold high in the sky... And he'll remember what it's like to be _warm_ and _safe_.

On the best of nights, he'll join Sandman on his cloud of wisps and dreams. He cups Dreamsand between his hands; lets it run between his fingers, and as it falls the streamers take shape, telling the story of his day, a recounting of _wonders_ and _dread_. On the best of nights, Jack curls up at the feet of the man made of smiles and gold — and sleeps. _And dreams._

But the best of nights are few and far between, and all too often Jack spends the long, cold hours of his solitude pressed up against the windows of snug, secure houses. He wants — what all children want. He wants a _place_ of his own. _He has a lake._ He wants a _family_ to return to at the end of the day. _He has the indifferent gaze of the Moon._

_The wants of a frost child are meaningless._

Jack doesn't _know_ it, but his wanderings have purpose. He's searching for answers. As he moves, from village to town to struggling homestead, he's always looking, _looking_ for the high places. Higher than rooftops. Higher than tree tops. He's seeking the highest spot of the tallest mountain — but from every mountain peak he finds he can see another mountain — ever higher.

Until, at last, from the roof of the world, he discovers a chain of mountains that seem to support all the weight of the sky on their snowy shoulders. And the mountains are tall enough to give even the Wind pause. These mountains are grim, grim in the way that all those that are feared are grim, and they are bound up in a winter that has never had to fear the coming of spring.

They are fell, dark mountains with a shadow as terrible as his own... but from the highest peak Jack can hear the laughter of children. _Children to play with._ He lunges forward, leaps _up_ from crag to snowy crag, playing a game of tag with the Wind, the Wind that twirls and drops him onto the feathery-warm back of a great Snow Goose.

Together, Wind and frost child and goose, they fly to the temple atop the summit of the world's tallest mountain. A temple of opal, a temple of light — and Jack knows, as he knows some things _but not others_, that he's found what he's been seeking.

He lets himself slip from the back of the goose; lets the Wind catch him and bat him about, from window to window until they find the source of the laughter. Falling as a snowflake upon the broad balcony, Jack peers into the room beyond, a room filled with babbling children and firelight and a young woman with clear, grey eyes resting against the downy side of a drowsy goose. The woman is holding a book like a butterfly before her, _and he's seen this before, _countless_ times before._ She's telling the children a story — a bedtime story — the same as any mother would do. She _feels_ like a mother, this grey-eyed lady, and as Jack has done so very many times in the past, he presses himself up against the window, as close as he can get to _inside_ and _home_ — and listens.

"—and they lived happily ever after," the woman tells her young audience, and he sighs at missing the chance of a story. The children seem equally as disappointed, and they beg the woman for another. Just one more story before bedtime. And Jack adds his own voiceless entreaty; a _story_, just one story, _please a story to hold tight against the long hours of the night._

"All right," the lady concedes from behind a loving smile as she slowly turns the pages of her butterfly book, but there's a small crinkle next to her clear, grey eyes; the tiniest crinkle of concern as the woman silently views a new tale, then looks out the window...

_She sees him._

"Once upon a time, there was a frost child."

"What's a frost child?" the littlest boy asks from his spot in front of the blazing fire.

"—A frost child is a snowflake. A snowflake child, made up of all the best parts of winter. His name's Jack Frost—"

"Tch! The best part of winter is playing," a little girl says with authority, jumping to her feet and encouraging those around to her to stand. "C'mon, lets go see what North's up to!"

Excited with the new plan, the children exit the room in a tussling, jumbled hoard, leaving behind the security of the fire. Leaving behind the storyteller and the tale she'd just begun weaving. Leaving _him_ — behind. He should be used to it, but it hurts all the same. It always, _always_ hurts.

Sighing, the grey-eyed woman sets down her book; sighs, and gently strokes the long, elegant neck of her goose before standing herself, and walking towards the window. "I'm sorry, Jack," she says, lining up her hand with his, with only the glass between them. "I can tell the children your story — but I can't force them to listen."

_How?_ he wants to ask. _How can she see him?_ How can she _know_ him?

_Why?_

He can't ask, but perhaps she reads the question trapped upon his lips. "You found your way here, and by coming, you've entered _my_ story. You're in my book now, Jack. And that means — someday — children will _hear_ your story. A child will listen, and _believe_. You wouldn't have appeared in my book, otherwise. Please... you mustn't give up hope."

Her answer — is no answer at all, and he pulls away from her window; pulls away from her clear, grey stare, away from her voice which is the voice of a mother. _He has no hope to give up._

Ignoring her startled cry, he jumps from her balcony to the eddying Wind below. He'd sought out the Lamadary to gain the Moon's attention — but Moon is as cold and distant as ever. There is nothing for him here, not even children. _The children who wouldn't listen to his story._ He yearns for his lake, misses _his_ village. He's been gone from _his_ children too long.

Wind whisks him away, out from the shadow of the grim, cold mountains — and Jack wishes he could so easily leave behind this newest truth.

_The story of a frost child holds no meaning, if there are no children willing to listen._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ And there's Katherine! Who needed to come into the story for two reasons. First: It's not like Jack Frost was completely unknown in the movie. At some time, somewhere, someone heard his story. And in _Silence_, there are two such people ^_^ One of which is Katherine, and one of which is... well... in part 20 and a bit beyond. Second: _Silence_ is in Jack's pov, so we only really know what Jack knows (or thinks he does). Now that Mr. Qwerty is keeping track of his story, though, there will be small snippets in some of the notes filling in Jack's tale — instead of me just telling you, "Yo. This is what happened, dawg."_

_-_- Please tell me I'm not the only one to find the children of Santoff Claussen annoying? I mean, all the Williams can be cute together, but otherwise? They're such flitter-brains. With no sense of self-preservation. And their parents are fairly empty-headed as well ^^;; These are the greatest inventive minds in the world? Oy vey!_

_Many thank yous and huggles to _Alaia Skyhawk, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, untamabledragon144, Eternal She-Wolf, RandomKrazyPerson, JediClaire, mjbaerman, Anne Camp, Clio Ying, Crystal Peak, anon000, Lazy Gaga, Anonymous_ reviewer, _Daylight, fourty-eight, Kaylessa, UVNight, blackkyu, Master Li, _and_ Aerrow4Ever_ for your reviews and support. Not only do they make me happy, some of your questions make me rethink certain assumptions. Thank you!_

_If you've only stopped by for the latest part, thank you for reading, and I'll see you tomorrow! Each and every review left will be greeted by a happy dance ^_^ And you'll be very grateful that you're spared the horror of _watching_ Esse's happy dance. For those with a bit of patience, there's a Grumpy!Jack AU drabble at the end — feel free to skip on down._

_My official over-all timeline (as opposed to _Silence's_ timeline, but works with Grumpy!Jack) is pushing the books closer to the 1770s. In _Bunnymund_ p.149: '_Katherine blinked. "You made _Australia?_"_' Hmm. Australia was discovered by Europeans in 1606 — but Great Britain didn't claim it until 1770. And for the continent to be somewhat common knowledge to a young, eastern European girl? Yeah. Unless Ombric told the children about it — which can't be discounted, which is why trying for any kind of useful timeline is so hard! Grr Ombric, Esse smash now!_

blackkyu:_ Glomp! And giggles at the idea of a "Jack's Journal" story, a part a day, for 300 years... "Dear Journal, today I made it snow." "Dear Journal, Yup, still snowing." "Dear Journal, froze a Yeti to North's back — teach that punk to toss me out of his Workshop!"_

_Which is Cranky!Old!Jack's cue:_

~o~

Jack did his best not to leave Nicholas for any great length of time; it was uncanny the trouble the lad could get himself into without constant supervision. He seemed to have settled well with the Cossacks, however, and Jack — still somewhat wary — had left for a few days to attend to a blizzard providing much needed snow pack to the Alps.

Tired, but pleased with a job well done, Jack drifted through the make-shift camp, stopping outside the untidily spread canvas serving as his ward's shelter. A stream of golden sand had worked its way inside, and smiling, Jack peaked underneath the canvas to assure himself of Nicholas' well-being.

The smile did not last long. "Sanderson!" Jack shouted, as the clear night sky clouded over. "Get down here this second!"

Hearing Jack's summons, Sandy descended upon his Dreamsand cloud, his eyes wide in bewilderment, for he'd never before been addressed with such hostility.

"What is this?" Jack snarled, pointing at the Dreamsand images playing out above the teenager's head.

Sandy shrugged, confused by the question. It was Nicholas' dream: Nothing more, nothing less.

"Nothing _less_?" Jack's voice cracked in his outrage. "He's dreaming of being a Bandit King, Sanderson. A prince of thieves and scoundrels! I'll not have it! Aster promised me he'll be a Wizard, beloved by children — cherished by all. A Wizard, not a wastrel!"

The Sandman glanced at the ongoing dream, then shrugged sheepishly. To become the one, the boy must first be the other. It was destined.

"No! I'll not risk Nicholas to such foolish endeavors! I won't! I'll freeze these Cossacks to the backs of their horses!" Jack raised his staff, already coated thickly in ice. "This is no life for my s... for Nicholas!"

Well, it was well within Jack's grant to freeze that which he deemed necessary, Sandy admitted. But how would the boy fare, without the protection of his comrades?

"I protect him! I..." Lowering his staff, Jack allowed the gathering ice storm to dissipate. "I did the best I could, Sanderson, but you're right. He needs company. He needs more than the companionship of snow flurries and ice. I suppose he's allowed a few youthful indiscretions..." His mouth twisted in bitterness. "Bah, _Bandit King_."

Sandy shrugged once more, then gently patted his friend's arm. Events had to play out — but that did not mean Jack couldn't voice his disapproval.

The following morning it took the Cossacks several hours to dig out from underneath the four feet of snow the night's blizzard had left. Left over the entire camp except the canvas shelter of their newest recruit, who laughed with wicked enjoyment as fur-capped heads popped out of the snowdrifts one by one.

Nicholas loved winter.


	15. missing

In The Silence

~15~

The Wind does not want him to go home. He can tell in the way it tarries, taking its time to meander along canyon bottoms, following the twisting courses of rivers as they flowed along paths of least resistance to the sea. He knows, because the Wind is faster than this; _he's_ faster than this, but he needs the Wind's help to cross the ocean. It doesn't stop him from flying ahead in an attempt to goad the Wind into action.

_It's been too long since he's been home._

The Wind has been hiding something from him. It's been quietly worried, gnawing away at some hidden trouble the same way it gnaws upon mountains — slow and relentless. Jack tries his best to be a friend; to sit upon the Wind's shoulder and **be**. But he wants his lake and his village — he wants his children — and he's _tired_ of the Wind's distractions. He's tired...

And he's so glad to be going home.

He spots the eastern mountains as a purple haze far to the west. Deciding that the Wind can deal with its own problems, at least for a few hours, he jumps from its back and ignores its pleas to return. He'll return — later. Later, he'll pick back up the responsibilities of a friend. Now — he's going home. He's been gone far too long...

_He can not hear his children calling._

The mountain gorges are familiar territory, and he pays them scant attention as he flies through them, although he does pause briefly in the scraggly branches of a pine he's grown fond of to bid it a fleeting welcome. His lake, too, he passes, but not without a lingering, thoughtful glance. The summer paths his children take to his lake are indistinct. Overgrown. More so than a simple season's snow would account for.

The Wind is behind him, plaintive. His roiling shadow is behind him as well, summoned by the unease tingling at the base of his spine and the tips of his fingers. _Something is wrong._ Jack rises above the high tops of the evergreens; stares down into the valley below where his village rests — but something. is. wrong. The Wind is moaning, futilely clutching at his cloak as he hurries hurries _hurries_...

His village is quiet. Quiet, except for the clattering bang of unlatched shutters swaying in the breeze. Silent, except for the Wind rushing through the unsecured doors of dark, haunting houses. There is no wood smoke rising from chimneys. There are no windows lit from within by the golden glow of lanterns. Snow lies in thick drifts in the square; pure, untouched snow _that no child has ever played in._

_Emptiness_ rings through the village louder than any natural noise, and Jack covers his ears against the horrible _not_sound as he dashes from house to gutted house looking for _some_ clue, some _sign_; looking for _anything_ instead of the _nothing_ he's confronted with. But gaping, mocking _nothing_ is all he finds.

_His children are missing._

He wants to ask the Wind what it knows. The Wind knows _something_, must have known something was wrong in the village. The Wind has been distracting him for _seasons_, ever since he'd last landed upon his lake. The Wind has been _lying_ to him _and his children are missing!_

He doesn't want to hear the Wind's excuses. The Wind is a liar and he wants nothing more to do with it. Instead, Jack focuses on a slender, vibrating thread inside him, that place of instinct and need that yearns for the laughter of children. If he can listen closely enough — if he can muster the absolute silence of winter, surely, _surely_ he'll hear his children calling. And once he hears the call there isn't a thing in all the world capable of preventing him from answering it.

He _feels_ it. Feels the faintest of tugs at his _self_, a feather-light pressure along his staff, leading him out of the village square to the fallow fields beyond. He lets his staff lead him, past moldering hay stacks and fallen fences to a clearing of unnatural, awkward stones and disturbed dirt. He knows, _he knows_ his children are here; somewhere _here_ his children have been hidden away. Somewhere... he knows... he... knows...

_Something has buried his children._

There's a remote recollection of laughter coming from the ground, earth's memory of what's been concealed within it. And Jack doesn't know why his children should be under the heavy, unforgiving dirt — his children should be playing, _playing_ in the snow he's brought them _how can they play when they're buried? _And Jack doesn't know why the Wind hid this from him, doesn't understand why the Wind had led him off when his children _needed_ him; needed him to save them from _cold dark fear_ and _be not_ and NO! _no no no no no!_ Not his children, not his village — not his girl-child and her Jack boy not them, under the earth is no place for a moonbeam, please no _but he can feel the last, faltering traces of them under, below, __**buried**__..._

There's unbearable pressure in his throat as he falls to his knees and begins scrabbling in the frozen earth. He can fix this. He can pull his children to safety; rescue them from this cruelty. _Who would bury children_? He can reach them. Reach them, and brush the mud from their clothes, their hair, their red-cheeked smiling faces, and they'll _play in the snow, as all children should_. He can... He can...

His shadow roars about him, hindering his efforts, but he can spare it no attention. Bones crack within pale fingers as he forces his hands deeper into the hard-packed ground, but he feels nothing through his determination to _rescue his children_. And there's a scream trapped behind the unbreakable broken thing, a scream of rage _fear_ and outrage _fear_ and denial _fear terror no!_ that's tearing him apart from the inside, tearing and shredding and _please, Moon, please i can't i can't i can't..._

The unbreakable broken thing gives way in a flood of lake water, slicing past all the tender, unseen places inside. He gags against its intrusion, gags against sharp splinters and icy water and _pain_ that's followed by a scream that will no longer be denied. A scream that coats the clearing in ice; a scream that topples the nearest trees and shatters rocks from the inside out. He screams and screams and _screams_ along with his shadow, screams and chokes on lake water that pours from his mouth and runs down his chin to his ruined, mud-streaked hands.

His shadow screams with him, screams _for_ him when he can no longer breathe, no longer _bear_ the reality of his children being buried, deep deep beyond his reach. Curling around agony, he lets lake water run from his mouth, lets it soak into the ground as he stares blankly at the shards of twisted, spiked gold the scream had ripped from inside him. Stares... and struggles to somehow find the belief for one... last... spell...

~o~

_**End Notes:** ^^;; Okay, next part should be the end of the super bad Jack ouchies. If anyone is still unsure about the unbreakable broken thing — it's mostly cleared up there. Same if you haven't spotted the connection with lake water ^_^ Tomorrow you'll have answers. And maybe more questions, I dunno._

_If you're curious as to what went on in the village, please read the excerpt from Mr. Qwerty at the very bottom. I'll give fair warning that I found it grim. If you don't know who Mr. Qwerty is, he's Katherine's story book. He is the glowworm that ate Ombric's library; after he emerged from his cocoon he was a butterfly with book pages for wings. Or a book that's mistaken itself for a butterfly ^o^_

_I put a small RotG crossover drabble on my profile for any that want to read it._

_Many heartfelt thanks to _Bookworm Gal, ccsakura21, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, UVNight, Eternal She-Wolf, Guest, Alana-kittychan, blackkyu, RandomKrazyPerson, WildCroconaw, Anne Camp, Crystal Peak, Alaia Skyhawk, Stariceling, thunder angel13, Midnight Muse, Anonymous _reviewer_, fourty-eight, Rollu, mjbaerman, Master Li_ and _Kaylessa_ for their reviews ^_^ I feel like hovering over them crooning "My precious!" o.o Just sayin'._

_Thank you for reading, and I'll see you back here tomorrow! And please review if you have a free moment; if not, I hope you have a wonderful day, and that no Christmas shoppers run you over with their carts. Because that's a bummer, right before the holidays._

_**excerpt from the pages of Mr. Qwerty**_

The sickness had come in the wagon of the tinker, at the beginning of spring. It struck both young and old, hale and infirm, and spared none. None except Isaac; who'd survived the pox when he'd been but a lad back in York.

They'd buried the body of the tinker and burned his wagon, and fervently prayed, but less than two weeks later the young Frost boy awoke with fever, followed by the rest of the children, who'd followed the tinker about, begging for stories.

Isaac knew the pox; knew _how_ the scythe would cut. Some would survive, he'd told his neighbors, family all. Some always survived. But the children were taken from them one by one, and their parents soon followed.

He'd tried to stop it. Burned the linens and the meager food stores left from the winter. Burned tables, chairs, and bedsteads. He could not commit the final act, though. He could not see his family off in such a manner.

He dug in the moist, fresh earth. And when the dirt began to dry, he moistened it with his tears. The Frosts. The Fishers. His own Elizabeth; sweet Mary and dear little James. He buried them all, and left simple stones to mark their graves.

His job complete and his beloved village of Tanglewood empty, Isaac Gurney walked into the forest, and prayed that the Lord in his mercy would see fit to take him as well.


	16. death

In The Silence

~16~

Jack's shadow is a devouring monster, spread wide across the valley; a monster of ice and wind with no regard for life. It needs no regard. There is no _need_ to restrain his shadow; let it rage, let it _destroy_ the empty, barren village and the forest beyond. _He doesn't care._ There is nothing in the world left to care about. Something, some horrifically cruel, unknown _thing_ has trapped his children beneath the ground, beyond his reach — and all he wants is to be with them.

If he could be with his children... If he could follow the ever-weakening echo of their laughter... If he could _be_ with his children — he'd make sure they were safe. Playing. _Loved._ But he knows this is no spell for belief. As he stares down at the warped shards of gold in his hands — _gold and lake water, so _much_ lake water_ — he realizes that greedy, clutching earth has taken away all his beliefs, and left him completely hollow.

So much the better, for a spell of not believing.

There's gold in his hands, and he forces his abused fingers to wrap around the shards of the unbreakable broken thing. Closes his hands until not a glimmer of gold can be seen through his clenched fists; squeezes while lake water oozes from between his fingers, dripping down to join the spreading puddle around him. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Not the agony inside, where the unbreakable broken thing had torn free, nor the pain outside, creeping upwards from his hands; not the ever-deepening cold, nor the ever-deepening darkness stealing his vision — matters.

His shadow is screaming with the voice of a blizzard — and he would join it, _he would_, but he's _tired_, so terribly, terribly tired. His children _need_ him, and it's taking _everything_ to not. believe. But it's growing easier, so much _easier_ to think of nothing at all...

"Jack!"

There's a voice on the Wind, a familiar voice, but he sees no reason to listen to it _since the Wind is a liar_ and can't be trusted. Besides, he's _comfortable_ against the ground; the pain has drifted away, and he's so close to finding his children, so very, _very_ close to finding his girl-child... Even his shadow is growing quiet, _dying down_.

"Jack!" Someone is rolling him over, and he sees her, the cruel-kind lady with hair of storm clouds and lightning, her brilliant dark eyes sheened with liquid and her hands a brand against his skin. Her fingers are against his mouth, pressing in, and he struggles against her. _Tries to struggle against her_, but he can not fight both her and the exhaustion weighting down his limbs — but he _wants_ her to leave him alone, alone...

"Stop fighting! You're bleeding out!"

He knows blood. Blood is a hot, hurtful bloom of red and iron and anger. He offers her a weak, closed-mouth smile to reassure her, but another surge of lake water pushes past his lips, and she takes advantage of the opportunity, forcing her fingers inside where they reach deep and spread. They _burn_ against the cuts and gouges, burn worse than the hottest summer sun, for the burn is _inside_ where the unbreakable broken thing once resided. He screams against the intrusion, _screams_ around fingers and lake water, screams until, suddenly...

The pain is gone.

Fingers like tendrils pull away and cup his cheek; run through his hair then tug him close. "Foolish, precious child. What do you _think_ runs through your veins?"

_Ice and lake water._

"Exactly." She cradles him within the cold comfort of her cloak, rocks him and hums a snatch of melody underneath her breath. "Exactly, _frost child_. What happened, Jack? What happened — here?" She stares around the clearing, her head cocked inquisitively to one side. "I felt you lose control of your shadow, but I never expected... this."

"...my children..." His voice comes out much quieter than he remembers it, cracked and raw — but there. "Someone. My children... Someone buried them in the ground. I tried..." He raises clenched, ruined fists; sighs as she runs fingers of fire along them, leaving behind blessed numbness. "They're so deep. I — I can't even hear them, now."

"Oh. My _dearest_." There's no cruelty on her face. There's no kindness. There is only devastation, and light reflecting off the tracks of sparkling tears like stars. "Jack. _Jack._ Surely you know what death is."

_Death?_ Death is the beginning of winter. Death is the shadow that overcomes that which is old, to make room for new, green-growing things. _What does death have to do with his children?_

"Everything dies, Jack. —Even children."

"Children — die?" He doesn't understand. It's something beyond understanding. Children are laughter, are gold-sand dreamers with rosy-cheeked faces. Children _play_. They're not old, or aging... they _play_ through winter, to the spring beyond.

"_Everything._ Even — you, Jack. Even, someday, me. And children — they grow up. They grow _up_ into adults." She's staring at him, staring at him in something like wonder, and his face is wet with her tears. "You — don't understand at all, do you?"

He doesn't think she would lie to him — unlike the Wind — but her words make. no. sense. He'd seen no signs of this 'growing up' with his children. They'd _changed_, of course — but they'd never stopped being his children. Not once. They were _still_ his children, even trapped deep in the earth where he could no longer hear them calling.

"They shouldn't — be — in the ground."

She's rocking him, rocking him as she herself rocks against such a terrible truth. "Shh. Shh, my bright, precious child. Of course they shouldn't. How wonderful this world would be, if we could prevent such things. But death's beyond us, Jack. So far beyond us. Shh."

Jack knows his shadow is terrible, but _her_ shadow is beyond monstrous as it descends; there is nothing in the _world_ that can withstand her shadow, and it's surrounding them both. _He hadn't meant to make her cry._ He wonders if, she too, has had something unbreakable break inside her. Trembling, he slowly unclenches his fists and lifts his hands to show her — to show that he _understands_.

"...What?" A graceful hand hovers over his own, her fingers reaching out _but not touching_ the twisted, ragged gold shards — and her shadow lifts as if surprised. "What is this, Jack?" Her twilight, radiant eyes widen as he brushes his throat with the back of one hand. "This is what you had inside? _This?_ How did you ever...? Your staff!"

His staff is caught under a thick sheet of ice, and she reaches through the ice as though it were air to grab up his staff for close inspection. "I know I saw it," she says in distraction, cradling Jack in her arms as her fingers explore the small gnarl of wood that marks the beginning of the staff's distinctive crook. "And there it is..." She gently taps the speck of gold embedded in the staff — and he feels it shiver along his spine as the shards in his hand chime against one another in sympathy. "Oh. This isn't at all what I'd assumed. Not in the least..."

He's glad she's no longer crying, he _is_, but he wishes she'd return his staff. The Wind has crept back to murmur apologies against his ear — but what kind of friend would hide the, the _death_ of his children from him? What kind of friend would lure him away when he was needed the most? What kind of friend — betrays? _He wants his staff, now._

"Of course," she says softly, placing the staff across his lap. "Jack, if I'd _known_ about _this_, I would have helped. I swear, I would have done everything in my power. It seems that I'm not above making foolish mistakes." There's a calculating, measuring look hidden in the firmness of her chin that's at odds with the appeal in her eyes. "Who could have ever imagined you would have swallowed so large a relic?"

He holds his staff closer for comfort, examining the spark of gold for himself, then scowls up at her. He'd never _swallowed_ the razor-edged splinters; certainly he would remember doing something so peculiar. _His memory isn't that bad._

Her laugh is both surprisingly girlish _and_ adult. "I know your lake is a comfort to you, dearheart — but water is not an elephant. An element so changeable is no proper confidant." She sees his confusion, sees it, and lets her laugh grow wistful. "I understand — so much more, now. Ever so much. I'd thought you Moon's work; you certainly _felt_ that way. But this..." Again, her fingers flicker towards the shards _but do not touch_.

"This changes everything."

She sounds hopeful; she sounds like birdsong at the start of spring. Jack doesn't want to hurt her again — _he never wants to make her cry_ — but neither does he want to be a faithless _liar_ like the Wind. "But — it's broken."

"Broken, yes, but also truly unbreakable." She stands in a swirl of mist, smoothly lifting him up with her. "I'd always wondered how my Father brought down the _Moon Clipper_." Her smile is tender; it's also full of small, sharp teeth. "Come, Jack. Hold tight to the pieces; I've an idea where they might be repaired."

"But..." There's no strength in his protest, but there is anguish. "My children..."

"I know, Jack. I know." There's such understanding in her gaze that he can't comprehend _how_ she can still be smiling. "I know what it's like — to lose my children.

_"Come."_

~o~

_**End Notes:** ^^;; Okay, from here on out, Jack's life gets happier ^_^ And the next few parts have — something — in them, that sets me to laughing every time I visualize it. In case this — something — seems too implausible to you, remember: Jack has no weight! Bwahahahaha!_

_"_water is not an elephant._" In _Toothiana_, the flying elephant takes away memories (amongst other things), and never forgets them — thus Nature's strange remark. In _Silence_, water, too, can take away memories — but water is, as you'd expect, extremely forgetful. So, yes — MiM is in no way the culprit in Jack's amnesia. The lake is. _

_A bit of a reminder on the timeline: Jack dies 300 years before the "current" day (whenever the bulk of the movie's set — we all assume 2012 or maybe 2013). The Thaddeus Burgess plaque reads: "_Burgess was a river town that was established in 1798, named after Thaddeus Burgess, who built the first log cabin there with his family before the bitter winter of 1795._" Which means Jack died almost a century before Burgess was around. More than likely this is an error within the film's continuity — but it's what we have to deal with._

_Okay. Thaddeus built the _first_ log cabin. Which means whichever settlement Jack was from was __**gone**__. GONE. Why his village disappeared, we'll never know. Whether sickness took it out, or famine, or the colonists packed up and moved — We Don't Know. Why Burgess' family resembles Jack's family, or why the present day citizens may or may not resemble Jack's family — We Don't Know (although it could just be stylistic similarities we're picking up on)._

_The reason I chose Tanglewood as Jack's original home is almost as easy to understand. The entrance to Pitch's ebil lair is right outside Burgess. The entrance to Pitch's _ship_ is right outside Tanglewood. And after slugging it out with the Guardians in the books, it makes sense to me that Pitch would return to his power base - no matter how wrecked lol!_

_Okay. Now, the reason I settled on small pox ^^;; It has a horrific mortality rate. And, much like the native Americans, the original European settlers had very little resistance to it (they arrived in America before small pox had gotten a foothold in Northern Europe). At the start of the Revolutionary War, British (and other) troops brought small pox with them — and that was the start of the North American epidemics (the epidemics from Mexico south took place earlier). Now, there were small pox outbreaks before then — but since there was basically almost no immunity, they did not get to epidemic proportions. It would strike a town, and mostly take it out before it could travel much further._

_The Revolutionary War would have been a suspect in Tanglewood's demise, except it occurs too late (1775-1783) and there _would_ have been signs of the town left when Thaddeus got there. I ruled out attack by native Americans — because as I've stated, it's my belief that Tanglewood was a Quaker settlement — and Penn's Treaty was _never_ violated. And while there could have been famine — that's even crueler than pox. The chances that everyone just 'moved away' are rather slim. _

_I hope that clarifies, erm...something or another ^o^ There will be an excerpt from Mr. Qwerty in part 20 explaining the origins of Jack's relic. I feel that's the best place to babble._

_Many heartfelt and humble thanks to _Clio Ying, Bookworm Gal, therosebaron, Alaia Skyhawk, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, RandomKrazyPerson, Eternal She-Wolf, Anonymous, Crystal Peak, Anne Camp, the bushy haired know-it-all, FyreFlyte, Alana-kittychan, fourty-eight, DoomCabbit, Kaylessa, UVNight, mjbaerman, Master Li_ and _blackkyu_ for their reviews and support. I'm terribly sorry about so sad a part!_

_Thank you for reading, and I'll see you all tomorrow with the next part!_

Bookworm Gal:_ See, the _really_ hard thing for me to understand is Jack offering to take her home in the first place O.o;;;;; I see take one of the scene going something like this:_

Jack: "How about I take her home?"

Bunny: "...Yeah. You do that."

Jack: "What, you don't think I can do it?" _::reaches down to pick Sophie up — hand goes right through ankle-biter::_ "Oh. Right. New plan: Bunny takes her home."

North: "No. Is no good. Jack must take little girl home to forward plot. Otherwise can not be tricked by Pitch."

Jack: -_- "Hey!"

Bunny: _::think think thinks::_ "Tooth, could your mini-Tooths carry her?"

Tooth: "Umm, Pitch has all the mini-Tooths. I suppose we could ask him to let a few go; I'm sure he'd hate to see his nefarious scheme foiled by such a small plothole..."

North: "Hmph. Is no need. Is one of Toothiana's powers, yes? So make with the splitting!"

Tooth: "But I can only do that in the books!"

North: "The cookies, they are being tough, yes?"

Tooth: "Fine. Sigh." _::strains, and produces half a dozen mini-Tooths, directs them towards Sophie::_

Sophie: _::giggles in her sleep as mini-Tooths climb inside her PJs and lift. ankle-biter appears to be floating in mid-air::_

Jack: "So — I just pretend I'm carrying her?"

Bunny: _::stares at bulging, lumpy, vibrating PJs of DOOM::_ "Right. No one in the audience is gonna notice **that!**"


	17. cavern

In The Silence

~17~

She strides through the forest, each footstep firm upon the ice-coated ground. There's a sureness to her movements, an inevitability, as her cloak swirls and sends wisps of mist spiraling in their wake. Jack clings to her; one hand tangled in her flowing, crackling hair while the other clutches broken shards of gold to his chest. The crook of his staff is hooked over his elbow, and while it should be striking the ground behind them — it doesn't, for they're moving too swiftly.

The forest is an icy white-grey blur around them and _how far had his shadow stretched?_ And though the Wind follows behind them imploring, he refuses to listen. Instead, he _listens_ as best he's able; _listens_ to the quality of silence that surrounds them. _Her footsteps are silent_, and no other sound — besides the penitent Wind — disturbs the calm.

"How—" he tries asking her, but the question tangles on his tongue.

"How, indeed," she answers, coming to a stop in front of a dark, ragged wound in the earth. It's an entrance to a cavern, and it exudes a chill like _fever_ into the copse around it, twisting the tree branches into skeletal arms that rattle and snatch in a breeze that has nothing to do with the trailing Wind. He buries himself in the protection of her hair, and wishes he could hide in the folds of her hood as a moonbeam might.

"Jack—"

"It smells — like rats." The opening isn't as threatening seen through strands of her hair, but the lady is carefully loosening his grip, one finger at a time. "I don't like rats," he tells her, and she seems to understand, for while she _does_ lower him to the ground, she keeps her hand wrapped securely around his own — and it's almost _enough_.

"It certainly does, my dearling." She crouches before him, and rubs at the knuckles of his hand in a soothing manner. "A long time ago, there was a great battle between the Moon — and my Father. Terrible injuries were dealt, by both sides. And my Father's ship, the _Nightmare Galleon_, ran aground here."

_Without an ocean?_

Her smile doesn't completely conceal her worry. "Yes. Without an ocean. It was — a very _unique_ ship." There's a terrible tenderness in her gaze, and her hand grows possessive around his own. "You've met my Father, Jack — and he _is_ a rat. And a spider. And the shadow underneath the beds of children, that turns their golden dreams to darkest nightmare."

He squeezes her hand in return, for something in her description is familiar. _All children know the Boogeyman._ Something creeps in the empty vault of his mind where memories should rest, a flickering, _be not_ thing that scrabbles and claws — and Jack is _glad_ he can't remember. He _hopes_ he doesn't remember, but _glaring mad yellow_ haunt the edges of his vision as he twists, staring down into the inky depths of the cavern.

"He's down there, isn't he?"

"I hope not." Smiling her smile of reassurance and uncertainty, she stands, and considers the melted, sagging rock of the entrance. "My Father's gotten himself caught in another war, and with any luck he's far, far from here. And while a few of his lackeys might be patrolling the wreckage, they're far easier to deal with than the Nightmare King himself. Dearheart..." She swings her arm forward — swings_ him_ up off the ground before letting go, and Jack's once more clutching one-handedly at her hair, a glossy-fine safety net that he eagerly finds refuge in. "...Whatever happens, you mustn't be afraid. Fearlings feed off negative feelings; our task will be hard enough, without strengthening _them_."

"Why go down at all?" He doesn't want to enter the cavern; there's darkness, there, that the Moon's never driven back. Darkness that seethes and reaches, chortling in insane glee at its own malevolence. _He doesn't like rats, and he can hear them writhing in the depths._

"We need to make you whole, frost child. We need to repair that which is unbreakable." Tucking the fluttering edges of her cloak of clouds and mist around him securely, she steps forward into the pit, and begins sinking with sickening ease. "There are secrets hidden here of which my Father has no knowledge. Before he twisted the _Nightmare Galleon_, it was a different ship entirely. If we're lucky, its starforge will be undamaged..."

They come to a stop over a lake of oily, black water — only it _moves_ and _reaches_ with mindless purpose. It's a lake of _rats_; a lake of _spiders_; a lake of ravenous, hateful shadows rising up against their intrusion. They're Fearlings, Jack knows, peering through strands of sheltering hair and wisps of concealing cloak. And Jack _doesn't know_ how to not be afraid, for while they're Fearlings — _they're also children_ — and he hides his face amongst the folds of cloak to block out the Fearlings' rattling whispers.

_'shall we play, frost child? we'd like ever so much — to play.'_

"Ignore them, Jack," she tells him, but there's a quaver in her voice, and he _knows_ without knowing that she hears the Fearlings' threatening requests as well. "They're but shadows, hiding as cowards from the light."

"Are they?" The quiet, good-humored voice is _terrible_ in its gentleness. "Are they, indeed?" A man is walking towards them, a man with the cruelest, coldest — _haunted_ — face Jack has ever seen. He looms above the shadows lapping at his feet; tall, and with a terrible magnificence that demands... demands...

_Crazed yellow mad_ rakes over them, and Jack holds closer the shards of broken gold, hiding them behind the tatters of his cloak.

"Father." The lady inclines her head _the barest of inclinations_ and Jack _sees_. Sees the same malice in both their faces — only the man has no other expression to soften the harsh, foreboding planes of his face.

"Daughter." Such cheer should not exist with such misery. "What a surprise, your visit to my humble abode. What brings you here, I wonder?" The man, the _Nightmare King_ moves closer, _glides forward_, and his cloak of lead and midnight is a cloak of tightly woven _fear_ and Jack wants to _run_, needs to _run_ but there's nothing but darkness pressing in, smothering. "Why, you've brought me a gift!

"Jack Frost, as I **live** and **breathe**." The man's laughter contains the harsh scraping of claws and the rustling of things best left undisturbed. "How have you _been_, dear, sweet child?" He reaches with his left arm, an arm of inky, flowing darkness; reaches out — and beckons. "Do give him here. We'll have such _fun_."

The woman's face — is nothing like the man's. "Jack is _mine_, Father. Do you understand?" And Jack doesn't know where she finds the strength, _finds the courage, his hands are shaking, no matter how tightly he clenches them_, to deny the Nightmare King.

"He's _**mine!**_"

The man blinks, a darkening of viperous eyes — then lowers his arm as — something, some misplaced emotion — crawls across the perfect wasteland of his features. "Is he, my Daughter?" He lets out a sigh, a sigh of shadow and sorrow. "Truly? Then perhaps we should be properly introduced."

She hesitates, biting at her lower lip with gleaming, sharp teeth; considers, then nods. "Perhaps you should. Jack..." She pulls back her cloak, pulls back the security of her hair, exposing him to the man's dark scrutiny. "This is my Father, Kozmotis Pitchiner—"

"Pitch," he corrects, his voice genteel but with cruel, hidden reverberations. "You may call me Pitch. But then, we already know each other, don't we, _Jack_?"

"Yes."

_Every child knows the Boogeyman._

~o~

_**End Notes:** Ah, Pitch finally gets his formal introduction ^_^ Book Pitch, that is. Whom, in the books, certainly seems headed towards redemption - or, at least, he's headed in that general direction. Eventually._

_At the end of _Toothiana_, Mother Nature _takes_ Pitch and Katherine - somewhere. Pitch knows he has a daughter (and he'd been hoping the flying elephant would take away all of his memories of humanity - because _knowing_ he has a daughter _hurt_). Since this part of _Silence_ is taking place several years after Toothiana, I'd like to think the two of them have been trying to work _something_ out._

_That, and Pitch is made out of snark, not shadows, and refused to be written any other way ^^;;_

_Many grateful thanks to _myrddin767, QueenPersephoneofHades, Alaia Skyhawk, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, UVNight, fourty-eight, Crystal Peak, mjbaerman, Master Li, Yue Hikari, oceanlover4evr, Zarelyn, Anne Camp, Anonymous, SethBlackwolf, Clio Ying, Alana-kittychan, Menolly5600, Hannah, RandomKrazyPerson, Kaylessa, blackkyu_ and _xeshirem_ for their reviews. Knowing that so many people are staying with the story - it's just amazing to me. Thank you so much! ::huggles you all::_

_Thank you so much for reading, and please leave a review if you have the time :) Otherwise, I'll see you back here tomorrow for the next part! Wishing you a wonderful day - that hopefully includes your favorite cookies._


	18. deal

In The Silence

~18~

The ground is a seething mass of shadow, of Fearlings and Nightmare Men and the hem of a cloak made of lead, midnight and fear — but Jack would rather watch the ground than face the regard of the dark King. He'd rather not meet the man eye to _crazed hungry yellow_ eye; there's an _emptiness_ to the man that sucks and pulls at the strands of his _self_. The lady, though, had withdrawn her veil of stormcloud hair. Had warned him not to be afraid. And all the things he'd _rather not_ could not withstand what he _must_ do.

_Though answering the Nightmare King feels like being trapped on the wrong side of ice._

There's a tightness in his throat, an _ache_ where the unbreakable broken thing once resided, and his voice is no more than a strained whisper as he repeats his answer. "Yes. I — know you." The sliver edges of golden shards press deeply into his palm, and the pain centers him. He finds that he can meet the other's gaze; meet it, and _dismiss_ it.

"You're a rat."

Pitch's laughter is a hollow boom shaking the malformed rock about them; loud, and mirthless, and strangely honest. The Fearlings chitter amongst themselves, writhe and twist, then flee down darksome tunnels to follow their own pursuits. And Jack watches them go, watches them _run,_ and he realizes — laughter can drive back _any_ shadow, even the overwhelming shadow of the Nightmare King.

"Very true, perceptive _child_." He again raises an arm, but this time it is his right, an arm of flesh and warmth. He raises it slowly, haltingly; stretches out his human hand and brushes Jack's brow with the tip of one finger; traces the curves of his face and the line of his nose. And though he expects the touch to burn, all Jack feels is a feathery coolness. "Precious boy, aren't you afraid I might hurt you?"

"Haven't you already?"

"Father!" The lady's dark eyes are both compassionate and threatening, and her hair lifts in a cloud of crackling static. "You shan't have him!"

Pitch tucks his hand, his _humble_ human hand, back within the folds of his cloak, and smirks. "No need to fret, my dear. I was merely — curious. You need not _fear_." His sneer is full of jagged teeth bared in ferocious warning, but a misplaced tenderness lurks in a single, silver spark at the corner of one mad eye. "I'd never _hurt_ you, Jack. Truly. Although..."

_The truest Truth can become a lie, if you listen to a shadow._

The hollow, rattling boom of a laugh once again fills the cavern. "Oh, you already know! That is a lesson that's _particularly_ good to learn early, _frost child_." He takes a step back, then another, while his mocking smile slides into blank indifference. "Not that I _care_. And not that there's anything you can _do_ about it."

Jack isn't entirely sure, but he thinks he can hear the truth hidden within the lie. Laughter can drive back shadows. Laughter can overcome fear. And despite his protestation, for some unfathomable reason — the Nightmare King _does_ care. Jack knows — because he'd _felt_ it in Pitch's gentle touch.

"_Entirely_ too perceptive." His expression now carefully guarded, Pitch sits upon a grotesque extrusion of slag. "So, Daughter. I highly doubt you've come to discharge familial obligations. Why are you here?"

She doesn't answer, but Jack can sense the tension running through her shoulders, feels the quickening of her breath. She doesn't want to answer, but the _presence_ of the King of Nightmares is immense, and it _demands_.

"Silly girl," he says fondly, leaning back against black abyss, "you're so frightened of my finding out — and yet, who else **but** me knows _everyone's_ fears? In fearing to tell me, you've told me everything." His chuckle, unlike his laugh, rings false. "A relic, is it? Broken? How delightful! Yet there's still something you're hiding from me." From his cloak he pulls a sword, a sword of lead and darkness that he carelessly rests across his knees. "Hmm. More than the starforge. Something..."

There are tears on her face. _She's crying_, and Jack doesn't know what to do. He _pushes_ against the darkness — and frost spreads across the craggy floor. Darkness _pushes_ _back_ in retaliation, and it takes both his hands upon his staff to keep it at bay. _Both hands_, and twisted splinters of gold fall to the ground at his feet.

"What's this?" Pitch is suddenly before him, _crouched_ in front of him without crossing the distance between, and the pressure against Jack's staff is _gone_. The Nightmare King's fingers — warm, _kind_ fingers — reach towards the shard, _but do not touch_ while the fingers of his other hand — cold, _cruel_ fingers, grip tighter around the hilt of his sword. "What's... Oh." Yellow eyes shift, from warped gold to frost child to the woman with lightning dancing within her hair, and the knowing smirk returns. "_Really,_ Daughter mine?"

"Father—"

"No, no. No need to explain. I see it clearly." Straightening, the dark King pats Jack's shoulder; pats in a familiar, indulgent way that staggers him. "So very clever. So very — you. However, I gave you my word, my dear. And we both know I _keep_ my promises." His sword disappears back within the clinging darkness of his cloak, but his smile stays in place. "I shan't fight you for — _them_.

"Pick up your broken bauble, Jack. There's a _good_ boy."

_He doesn't want to obey the order_ but scrabbles against rock and slithering shadow nonetheless, quickly picking up the pieces of the unbreakable broken thing and hiding them inside his closed fist. He doesn't understand; he'd _listened_ carefully to Pitch's words — but there's meaning beyond truth and lies snarled inside them that he's _missing_. He _wants_ to understand, and he _wants_ the man to stop smiling — but the only thing within his power is the ice spreading outwards, coating the floor of the cavern in a glimmer of frozen white.

The lady, her beautiful, terrifying face gone pale with strain, pays no heed to the slipperiness underfoot as she takes a step towards her father. "You'll not prevent us the starforge, then?"

"Prevent?" Pitch's laugh is honest, and his chuckle lies, but his _amusement_ is an abomination echoing from the rock walls loud enough to dislodge a scattering of shattered granite. "No, my _light_. I'm going _with_ you. With you _both_."

"There's no need—" she starts to protest, then stops when his hands, _both his dreadful and comforting hands,_ rise in supplication.

"Would you deny your poor, starving Father a meal? Forced to hide within this wreckage, so far _away_ from any tempting morsel..." Before she can refuse him, he lets all cordiality leach from his voice until only harsh grating remains. "Consider it my _price_."

There is a torn, lost look about her brilliantly dark eyes, but her answer is firm — though her hands shake behind the cover of mist. "Done."

"Wonderful! This way, then. It wouldn't do to dawdle. Fearlings aren't the most accommodating of hosts, you know." He directs them to a particularly noisome tunnel — and they have no choice but to follow past sharp-pointed spires of rock. "You never give up, do you, my Daughter?"

Clinging to a lock of the woman's stormcloud hair, Jack doesn't think the other man can hear the tears behind her casual, "No, my Father. I don't."

~o~

_**End Notes: **_Kaylessa_ was able to beta this for me! Yay! For everyone wondering what the do-diddle is up with Pitch's arm... Book!Pitch! _Toothiana_ p.219: '_Katherine stared at Pitch's hand. Its flesh color had spread up his arm, all the way to the shoulder._' annnnd p.222: '_Her eyes widened. Pitch's touch was unexpectedly gentle._' Whether or not Pitch is headed for redemption... we won't find out until next September. Grr._

_Many grateful, kowtow-ing thank yous to _QueenPersephoneofHades, Alaia Skyhawk, cindar, RandomKrazyPerson, Eternal She-Wolf, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Clio Ying, Yue Hikari, phantomworks, Anonymous, Anne Camp, Crystal Peak, FallenHope-Angel, mjbaerman, Alana-kittychan, blackkyu, oceanlover4evr, Kaylessa, Von, anonymous, _and_ Master Li _for their reviews. I think — I hope! __—_ that I caught up with replies. If somehow I missed you, it's only because I'm a flake. Really.

_If you're only reading for the story, thank you so much for dropping by, hope you enjoyed the Pitch snark, please leave a review on the way out if you feel like it, and I'll see you tomorrow! Otherwise, Grumpy!Jack demanded attention, so his drabble is at the bottom for those interested._

oceanlover4evr:_ Tackle Glomp! Yes! Yes yes yes! So in the movie, the scene actually goes like this:_

At Tooth Palace Tada!

Pitch: "Hang on, is that Jack Frost? Since when are you all so chummy?"

Jack: "We're not."

Pitch: "Oh, good! Look, I brought you a pony!" _::summons Nightmare Onyx (and Esse XD at the nightmare having a name in the novelization hahaha!)::_ "Izzn't she pretty! Go on, girl; go to Jack!"

Jack: "Yay, a pony!"

Bunny: o.O;; _?pony?_ "Pitch! You shadow-sneaking ratbag! Giving a little boy a pony! That's cheating!"

Pitch: _::pouts, calls Onyx back::_ "Fine. I'll just destroy you all." _::tells all and sundry his plans for Guardian smack-down::_

Jack: _::pouts::_ "Hey, my pony!"

Pitch: "Oh, this isn't over! Not by a long shot! Remember, potluck is this Thursday! Toodles!"

North, Tooth, Sandy, Bunny: _::gape::_ "Huh?"

Jack: -_- "What? Like you didn't know?!"

_Okay, AU drabble time! To make it clear __—_ this has nothing to do with Silence_! Nothing at all! Grumpy!Jack insists that he is not _old_... Although he is cranky..._

~o~

It was old Andriy the Cossack that offered Nicholas his first pistol, after their return from a successful raid. Andriy, his face hidden behind a veritable thicket of bristles, had admitted roughly that he'd not disappointed them. Had proven himself a man, deserving of a man's weapon. And as Andriy handed the gun to the embarrassed yet proud teenager - it had shattered in his hand.

The entire band had gathered around; stared, and muttered under their breaths.

"Too cold. The ice weakened the iron," was Andriy's opinion, echoed around the camp. "We will try another."

"Maybe later," Oleg said, kicking at what was left of the barrel. "Practice more with the sword. Then, we'll see."

It became a game amongst the cruel, hard men of the group, almost a rite of passage, to attempt to give Nicholas a gun. Yet time and again pistols shattered before the teenager could accept. Nicholas himself was never hurt. Ivan Dovzhenko, however, forever more earned himself the nickname of Ivan the Six Fingered.

In time, Nicholas left the Cossacks; not only because they were heartless, wicked men, but because their casualties were growing too great. There were only so many times a man could have a pistol shatter in his hand before he grew superstitious. And the Cossacks had decided that Nicholas was a jinx.

He didn't mind. He gathered together his own band of outlaws, and Nicholas became the most notorious bandit in all the Russias. Why, it was practically legend, how he had defeated an entire regiment of calvary with a bent steak knife! Of course, he took great care to leave out the part where the knife was the only weapon that would stay intact in his hand.

"This must stop," Nicholas eventually confided to his men. "You will all throw me your pistols at once. Surely the cold can not shatter them all!"

So they gathered in a group, and upon Nicholas' signal tossed their pistols towards him. And while cold shattered most of the guns, the young man managed to grab one - and fire it into the air! "Ha ha!" he laughed, waving the pistol boastfully. "Take that, Old Man Winter!"

Nicholas would later swear that the blow to the back of his head had felt exactly like a strike from some grandfather's cane. And each time he swore it - he'd receive another whack.

_"You do know," Aster said, his nose twitching in guarded humor, "you'll need to let the boy arm himself eventually."_

_Jack scowled, and bopped his ward once more for good measure. "I will, once the fool stops firing them into the air!"_

_The Pooka winced. "About that..."_

In the meantime, Gregor of the Mighty Stink laughed at Nicholas' plight, as his leader rubbed his aching head. "Ha ha! It looks like Old Man Winter has it out for - Owww!"

Nicholas howled in laughter and slapped at his knee as Gregor was knocked from his chair from the force of the blow. "It seems the old General is particularly cranky this - yow! Ouch! Ahh!"


	19. star

In The Silence

~19~

The tunnel twists and turns, rises and falls, and stone becomes metal so gradually that it's several minutes before Jack realizes they are _elsewhere_. Pitch's footsteps make not a sound, and neither do the lady's, and there's a small thankfulness amongst his scattered thoughts that he's floating within the welcoming tangle of her hair, for the possibility of _three_ sets of unheard footsteps makes him uneasy in a way separate from the general unease of the Nightmare King's lair.

As if hearing his thoughts, _which he can, no matter how jumbled; who can hide their fears from the Boogeyman?_, Pitch graces him with his awful smile of gloating and pride. "I wouldn't be much good at sneaking up on small children if they could hear me coming, wouldn't you say, _Jack_?"

"It hardly takes _skill_ to creep out from underneath beds, Father," the woman says, adding a disdainful sniff for emphasis. "Roaches do it all the time. Wait until the children have electric torches." Her smile, so much like her father's, is gloating upon her curved lips as she meets his outraged glare. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You know they're coming. The Pooka will see to it."

Long, sharp teeth grind together in a formidable scowl as Pitch sweeps the edges of his cloak over his arm. "The Pooka. For all his vaunted skill and learning, it certainly didn't help him prevent the fall of the Golden Age, now did it?" Without warning, he turns into a side-corridor and blends in with the menacing shadows lurking within. "Do watch your step," he warns a moment too late, as the lady's foot steps out over nothing.

Jack clings to her hair; clings to hair and staff and sharp splinters of gold as he stares down and down into the pit. It's nothing like being with the Wind, high above the world with the Moon a silent, watchful presence above. It's a sucking, snatching abyss with the molten glow of melted, hating things below — and although he's never been afraid of heights, he discovers that he's very much afraid of _depths_.

"You did that on purpose," she huffs, making a jarring landing on the other side of the shaft.

"Me?" Pitch pretends innocence, but the harsh contours of his face are unable to form the false sentiment. "My girl, it would have saddened me greatly were you to fall into the _Galleon's_ engines. If it eases your mind, though: I would have _saved_ your dear, sweet _boy_."

"Don't need saving," Jack ventures, resolutely _not_ looking back at the yawning chasm — but Jack is a child, and all children _look_.

~Don't you, frost child? Do you _really_ believe that? Oh, I think **not**.~

There are rats in the shadows, dozens of rats with gleaming _mad ravenous_ eyes, skittering and chittering and _clawing their way forward_—

"Must you?" the woman snaps at her father, pushing past him with an upraised, warding arm. "Does it fill you with _pride_ to know you can scare a newborn babe?"

"True, it's not much of a challenge," Pitch admits, now trailing behind them. _He doesn't want the Boogeyman behind them,_ and the Nightmare King's grim smile returns as he inclines his head in acknowledgement. "But I do believe I mentioned that I'm starving."

Jack twists around thick strands of lightning-streaked hair, for he'd much rather face the unknown darkness ahead than the _known_ darkness chuckling behind them. Ahead, however — isn't as dark as it was. _Ahead_ there's a spark of welcoming light; light that glows and beckons with reassuring warmth. Ahead, he can smell the faint memory of starshine.

"Are you sure you're coming with us?" she asks sweetly with a quick turn of her head. "It would be a shame, if the light were to smite you from existence."

"Ha ha. Your concern for my welfare fills my heart with _joy_." The dark King pulls the hood of his outfit over his head, concealing himself within the singular darkness obtainable only by the blending of midnight and primal lead from which his cloak is woven. "Never _fear_, my dear. I'll be with you for a long, _long_ time."

The corridor widens into a high-ceilinged chamber; a room of silver and starlight. And in the corner of the room, shining with soft luster, there's a hearth upon which a single star blazes; sparkles and dances and _lives_ to the rhythm of the universe. A star triumphant in its song of _I. I. I. _A star that's not only survived, but flourished in the darkness of the earth.

_Only in darkness can a star shine._

"The starforge," the lady tells him, as she untangles him from her hair and settles him lightly on the silver-streaked floor. There's awe on her face, and a vast regret. "I was not sure it survived. Jack," she kneels by his side in a swirl of cloak and mist; kneels, and cups his face between her two slender hands, "I want you to listen closely. The starforge is the only way to repair the relic. You'll need to _hold_ the fragments inside the star — and believe. Believe that they can be whole. If your belief is _true_, if you can convince the star... It too will believe. And a star's belief is the most powerful spell in creation."

Opening his hand, Jack looks down at the raggedly twisted shards of gold laying across his palm. He's not certain he can find the belief needed — but he'll try. For her — _to spite her father_ — he'll try. Only...

"Will it hurt?"

"Hurt?" Pitch repeats, his eyes incandescent within the darkness of his hood, bright and terribly _hungry_. "I should hope so. In fact, I very much doubt you'll survive. Best if you forget this entire foolish venture, child." He, too, kneels at Jack's feet, his flesh and blood arm free of the cloak and his fingers resting sincerely across his chest. "Trust me in this, if in nothing else: I can scarcely feed upon you, if you're _dead_."

Biting back the first stirrings of panic he turns to the lady, _waiting_ for her denial — but her lips are pressed into a hard, foreboding line. "I won't lie to you, dearheart. The starforge will hurt like nothing you've ever before experienced. But you'll die regardless, if the relic remains broken. You might be the Moon's charge, but you're not Moon's _work_."

He'd rather not _hurt_. He doesn't like pain, not. one. bit. But dying is nothing to fear. _His children are dead._ He had not known it was possible, to _be not_ as easily as slipping his hand into the heart of a star. _His children are buried._ And while he wishes that he might die up above, in the white coolness of the snow, upon the ice-glass of his lake — it will not prevent him from this task.

_His children are dead, and he'd very much like to join them on their adventure._

The dark King shudders, and his frail, human hand clutches at his head. "Ooh, your _reasoning; _your _dreams_ are more logical. The rambling paths of your mind are going to give me _nightmares_."

Jack glares; glares at the Boogeyman _who's hardly scary, complaining of __**thoughts**_. As Pitch flinches back, the smallest start of a grin emerges from Jack's glare — for who would have thought the dark King could be phased by a frost child's musings? It serves him right, for snooping where he'd not been invited. Not that he would have invited him. Only, it would have been nice — _it might have been nice_ — to have been asked. He thinks. And his grin widens in relief as the King of Nightmares withdraws his overwhelming regard, huddles beneath his cloak, and _whimpers_.

Softening his smile, he strokes a lightning-touched lock of the lady's hair. He's so glad to have met her. He wishes, _wishes_ she might have been his Mother; but he's not her Jack boy. He's _no one's _child at all — except Snowflake's. Then, before he can _see_ the tears brimming in her clear, opaque eyes, he turns towards the starforge.

It seems a long distance off. His strides are neither slowed nor rushed, but it takes _so long_ to reach the far side of the room. The star in the forge flickers at his approach; starlight glimmers along the razor edges of the gold shards resting in his palm, and pools around the glimpse of gold caught within his staff. The star beckons and _sings_ though he can't _quite_ understand the words, only knows there's yearning, and joy, and hope.

Without looking back, he _pushes_ the unbreakable broken thing into the starforge.

And there's — pain. A flash of pure light, of dazzling deep burning and soul-rending _hurt_ that tears through him... but there's also welcome. Elation. _Love._ The star _loves_ him — and that hurts even worse. _Who could love a _cold dark fear_ child?_

{frost child, star child, on whose birth lost dreams have smiled, child whose coming we have seen, tell me what you wish to **be**.}

Believe, the lady had told him. Believe — in something. He struggles to remember, struggles against agony and _love love love_ and the brilliance that's reaching into the edges of his _self_. There's only one thing he's ever, absolutely believed in, beyond doubt, beyond question. Only one thing in all the wide world that has ever completely believed in _him_. What is belief?

_What is a moonbeam's lullaby?_

_What is a friend?_

_'Why why why?'_

{a beautiful wish, a beautiful dream of a star child boy and his faithful moonbeam.}

It's dark, and quiet, and peaceful. It's dark, but it's the darkness of a full Moon night; a darkness lit by candlelight and the murmurs of children caught in dreams of gold. It's quiet, but there's the comforting flow of distant conversation blending in and out of the silence. It's peaceful — and he can feel his children, laughing in the snow. His children, and his first general of winter has her arms around him, her cheek pressed against his own, and she's whispering ever-so-softly so as not to disturb the silence...

_"I love you, Jack. I always will."_

It's dark, and quiet, and peaceful. And there's someone talking, far, far away from their snowy clearing in the woods...

"I can't believe he's smiling. Hmph. Well, the starforge is destroyed. —Which is impressive. I'll grant him that, even if the relic is ruined."

"Ruined? Wallowing in the darkness has obviously blinded you."

"You came to reforge the Star Pendant. Now look at it! Deformed beyond recognition!"

"Don't tell me you can't recognize a Snowflake, Father."

"_Please._ Just take your misbegotten frost child and leave. Maybe fresh air will do him some good. _...And Daughter? ...Watch over him. Family — is precious._"

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Yay! Part 20 will bring a close to this arc, and hopefully most questions (but not all) will be answered — or at least distracted from!_

_Fanart! Triple yay and huggles galore!_

_The _therosebaron_ did a glomp worthy pic of Grumpy!Jack and Nicholas:_

flyinginvisibleicezombie dot tumblr dot com

_and Esse is XD_

_And _reckless is a wreck_ did this absolutely lovely gif! Ooo, the pretty and the poor, poor frost child!_

recklessisawreck dot tumblr dot com

_Click on GIF TAGS under Jack Frost Icon, then click Rise of the Guardians — and there it is! Eee!_

_Thank you so very much! And _Kaylessa_ has done a Pitch piece that — AHH! I will add link here as soon as it has a proper home ^o^ It's not actually _Silence_ related — except, erm... That is the Pitch that has set up camp in my spare bedroom. And he tells me he's _far_ too cultured for frozen, microwaveable pizza._

_Humble, grateful thanks to _Bookworm Gal, QueenPersephoneofHades, Alana-kittychan, RandomKrazyPerson, UVNight, ForeverWillEnd, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Guest, Crystal Peak, Eternal She-Wolf, Yue Hikari, oceanlover4evr, Kaylessa, therosebaron, Aerrow4Ever, blackkyu, gh0st' .Machine, fourty-eight, btBatt, reckless is a wreck, Twilight Cardmistress, Master Li_ and _Anne Camp_ for their reviews. Thank you so much! Hopefully I PM'd everyone I could — if I missed anyone, I'm terribly sorry ^^;;_

_Thank you all for reading! Reviews are motivation to try to stay on a daily schedule ^_~ Otherwise, I hope your day is full of joy and churros, and I'll see you back here tomorrow. (Actually, I hope my day is full of churro. I want churro now. NOW! Drat... my oatmeal is suddenly looking terribly unappetizing...)_


	20. pendant

In The Silence

~20~

Jack is playing with his children. _With them._ He's not sure why the thought keeps surprising him — _hasn't he always played with his children?_ — but each time one accurately hits him with a snowball, or asks his opinion on their snowman, or when his girl-child's Jack boy throws pudgy arms around his leg and begs with a complete lack of shame to be picked up, Jack feels a thrilled shock run through him. There's something unusual about this perfect evening, something he _doesn't want to_ understand, and he plays with his children in the snow until night mantles the sky in indigo.

_"It's time for us to go, Jack,"_ his general of winter tells him as she leans companionably against his side. Her Jack boy is in her arms, yawning and resting his snowflake-sprinkled head against her shoulder.

"Do you have to? It's not that late."

_"Late enough."_ Her smile is a sunset as she leans closer and presses a fleeting, air-light kiss to the tip of his nose. _"Payback,"_ she laughs, low and gentle as she steps away, the weight of her Jack boy firm upon her hip, _"for all the times you've nipped at ours."_

He watches his children walk away, entering merry, golden-glowing houses. The gold reminds him of — something. Warm hugs, and safety, and his very own home. He looks up towards the sky, expecting... something. But all that's falling are large, damp flakes of snow, thicker and thicker, until there's no sky at all — only snow.

Jack blinks against them, once, and then again. The clearing is subtly different, and the body he's resting against is cloaked in mist and thunderstorms. He'd been somewhere, somewhere _else..._ He reaches out to grasp the thought before it fades completely, but it slips through his fingers and disappears into the silvery snowfall night.

_Hadn't he been on the Nightmare Galleon?_ He _thinks_ he was; he's fairly certain he was — but would Pitch let snowlight take over his lair? The air is crisp and clean as he takes a deep breath, scented with pine. It's the smell of forest and ice; the smell of outside and play...

"Welcome back, dearheart." The lady brushes the hair back from his forehead, then helps him sit upright. "Pleasant dreams?"

_Dreams?_ He doesn't think he's been dreaming. Dreams come upon streamers of sand, not... starlight. He remembers a star. With languid bemusement he turns his hand over; examines unmarked palm and fingers; curls his hand then straightens it as though movement was a new trick he's just learned to play. He's fairly certain he remembers a star, but his hand is whole. He remembers _children_, but the clearing is empty. He remembers — a promise, made to him by a star...

"Did it work?" His voice is rough; scarcely his voice at all, but then, he's not sure his voice is something he _would_ recognize. It might be his voice. It's assuredly his question.

The hand on his head stills, then lifts. "It depends." She wraps a thin strand of woven winter grass around his upraised fingers, from which hangs an intricate gold pendant of sharp lines and points. Snowlight catches in the edges; catches and multiplies, until the relic shines more silver than gold. "You tell me."

"_Snowflake._" It is. There in his hand, in gold burnished silver, is his Snowflake moonbeam. Jack struggles to sit on his own; cradles the pendant in the center of his trembling palm and strokes the precise spokes with the tip of his finger. "_Snowflake._ You've come back."

_'Hello, Jack boy,'_ the moonbeam murmurs, drowsy with sleep, exhausted beyond measure, but so, _so_ very glad. _'Hello. Hello...'_ With a last burst of welcome, the moonbeam slips back into slumber, dreaming such dreams as moonbeams might; of light, and play, and frost children.

"How?" Holding Snowflake tenderly between the palms of his hands, Jack lifts his friend _his very first friend_ to his chest and croons softly, wordlessly — the lullaby of a frost child. There's a tightness in his throat, and a stinging in his eyes that he doesn't understand, because he's _happy_. Ever so happy. Even if Snowflake's now a moonbeam made of gold instead of light, it _doesn't matter_ because they're together. _Together._

"You believed in something so _much_, Jack, that you convinced the star to believe in it, too. May I?" Without waiting for his reply, she lifts the relic by its slender cord and slips it over his head, where Snowflake comes to a rest nestled in the hollow between his collarbones. "There. Keep it safe, my dearling, away from prying eyes. You've no idea how rare it is, for a moonbeam to make its way back. I'd thought a star's belief to be the most powerful spell in all the universe — but you're full of tricks, aren't you? I _knew_ you'd be the best trick of all."

He smiles at her; he can't help but smile as a feeling of timid pride begins to unfurl. He's faced down the Boogeyman. He's managed to make whole the previously broken unbreakable relic. His Snowflake has been returned to him — he's no longer _no one's_ child. _And he's played with his children; truly played as children do; it is a truth he will _never_, not _ever_ doubt._

She returns his smile, a smile not afraid to show its pride as she hands him his staff and stands in a billowing swirl of cloak and fine hair. "So many things are possible, now. Thanks to you. Oh, that wizard is in for such a surprise! To see the look on Moon's face!" She laughs her adult girlish laugh, twirling through the falling snow. "Call on me, Jack, when needs must. Call, and I'll come. Farewell, my little Piece of Winter!"

Between one snowflake and the next she disappears — but Jack's smile doesn't. Wonderingly, he touches the pendant; feels the cool press of gold against his neck, _hears_ his moonbeam murmuring within the depths of dreams. He _knows_ Snowflake's slumber will be long, _knows_ how far the moonbeam's traveled to make it back to him. He can not help but smile — until he feels the Wind tugging nervously on the hem of his cloak.

"What do _you_ want?" He doesn't want to hear the Wind's excuses. He doesn't. But the Wind is sorry — so terribly, terribly sorry; had only meant to spare him pain _there's nothing he could have done_. Wind has spent all of eternity alone until a frost child hugged it close — and it can't bear to be alone anymore. _please._

Despite the Wind's urge to help, Jack stands on his own. Stands, and _walks_ out of the clearing, using his staff as it has never been used before: As support. He thinks he might be as tired as his moonbeam. He thinks it might have been just the smallest bit foolish to stick his hand into the heart of a star _though he'd do it again, without question_. He walks through forest, and past fallow fields, to the empty, echoing village beyond.

He peers through doorways to the bare rooms within, then faithfully closes the doors. He presses close to bubbled glass windows, then latches wooden shutters across them. He sits on a rough log bench in the square, arms around his knees and his head resting upon his arms as he steadily stares at the home of his first general of winter. "Children — die," he whispers to Snowflake; to the Wind; to himself. _Children — are buried_. But no one had thought to bury his poor, dead village.

And for the first time, he deliberately calls his shadow. It comes, eager yet obedient, waiting to hear his will. A dreadful _terrible_ shadow — that can serve a purpose. His shadow need not _always_ be a curse.

"Wind..." He holds his pendant tightly, and blinks back tears. "I'll need your help for this."

The Wind lifts him up, high above the village; lifts him until he and his shadow are one. And, together, in a single night of ice and gale...

_They bring the village down._

And though he hasn't forgiven the Wind; hasn't quite found a way to _forgive_, he's thankful for its steady, caring presence as he leans upon its shoulder — and cries.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ End of first arc. Yay! There will be two transitional parts before the second arc starts up ^_~ Huggles to _Kaylessa_ for the invaluable beta work! Lufs you!_

_Many thanks to _Bookworm Gal, whylime, Eternal She-Wolf, RandomKrazyPerson, Guest, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, QueenPersephoneofHades, Clio Ying, kinatsurune, DoomCabbit, oceanlover4evr, Crystal Peak, Anne Camp, Yue Hikari, Lazy Gaga, Sakon76, !A4E!, Pandombie, Alana-kittychan, Alaia Skyhawk, UVNight, fourty-eight, blackkyu,_ and _Kaylessa_ for their reviews. Reviews = wuvvles = Esse finds the gumption to sit down and write more lol!_

_Thank you for reading, but today you'll want to stay for Mr. Qwerty ^_~ Afterwards, I hope you have a grand day, and I'll see you back here tomorrow!_

_**excerpt from the pages of Mr. Qwerty**_

It would have been impossible for the Lunanoffs to imprison the outlaws preying upon the Seas of Space if not for the Star Pendant. A gift from the very universe itself, the Pendant was made of light and possibility, and from its radiance the Fearlings, Nightmare Men and Dream Pirates could not hide. And once the last criminal was captured, entombed in lead in their sentence of eternal darkness, Tsarina Lunanoff proudly wore the Star Pendant around her neck, where its benevolence helped the Golden Age flourish.

But no shadow can be banished forever and the brave General Kozmotis Pitchiner, tricked by the prisoners he'd sworn to guard, was consumed by darkness and the Nightmare King Pitch rose in his place. Pitch raged war against the Golden Age; brought down the Constellations, until only the Lunanoffs — protected by the light of the Star Pendant — remained.

Darkness, though, is crafty; darkness knows the secret fears harbored in the most stalwart heart. And darkness whispered to a sleeping Moonmouse aboard the Lunanoffs ship the _Moon Clipper_. Whispered that the Star Pendant, their only protection from Pitch — was in danger. Dread danger.

Waking in the night, the Moonmouse knew what he had to do. Creeping to where the Tsarina slept, he gnawed through the golden chain draped around her neck, and took the Pendant away. He had no time, however, to find a safe hiding place for the relic — for Pitch had been waiting for just this moment, and attacked.

The hull of the _Moon Clipper_ was blasted away — and the pendant was lost. It fell towards the blue-green planet below, along with the wreckage of Pitch's _Nightmare Galleon_ and stray bits of the _Moon Clipper_. The pendant fell, but was not afraid, for it contained every possibility that could ever come to be.

It streaked across the planet's sky, until it had found what it had foreseen. With little effort the Pendant came to rest upon a tree branch, burying the Bail that had once attached it to the Tsarina's necklace deep into the wood. And there it waited for long, lonely years. The branch curled oddly around the bit of gold hidden inside, but thrived nonetheless. The tree grew. Then grew old. Then, in the fullness of its years and weary of its ceaseless guard, it fell.

The Pendant and its branch — waited. Waited as only stars can wait. Until, one day, a boy and girl came to skate upon the lake the Pendant was resting near. It came as no surprise to the Pendant when the boy picked up the branch. No surprise when the girl was swept to safety. No surprise — but grief, ancient, humbled grief — when the branch struck the ice, breaking the Pendant away from its Bail.

Boy and Pendant together tumbled into the frigid waters. And the boy screamed against the icy shock; opened his mouth and _screamed_ — and the Pendant was carried with the water as it poured down the boy's throat.

The Star Pendant was formed of possibility — even that which others deemed impossible. And the stars themselves had sung of this boy. Awaited — this boy. So the Pendant did that for which it had been created — and drove back the darkness. And filled the boy with light.

~o~

_Okay, here's a bit a drabble that's going to continue on for the next few days __—_ because how could Pitch not_ be excited?_

~o~

Pitch is sitting on an ornate park bench. He _appears_ to be eating a pudding snack pack. The pudding snack pack _appears_ to be flavored frosted sugar cookie. It _appears_ that he's eating the pudding with a fork. And it _appears_ that he's enjoying his snack pack tremendously.

Jack flies up and sits next to the not-as-scary-when-eating-pudding-with-a-fork Boogeyman. "Huh. What's got you in such a good mood?"

"Wouldn't you like to know!"

"Well, yeah, that's why I asked." Jack rolls his eyes, and stares at the snack pack labeling. "What happened to plain chocolate or vanilla?"

"It's the holidays, Jack. I was in the mood to celebrate — for the end of the world is nigh!"

"Nigh?"

"What? It's a word!" Pitch brandishes his fork, but it too, is not as scary when covered with frosted sugar cookie pudding. "Anyway, the world ends in two days! Mayhem! Panic! Eternal darkness — frozen void optional." Giving Jack a considering glare, he licks his fork then sticks it back into the plastic snack pack cup. "I'm thinking no on that one."

Jack blinks, and taps his fingers along his staff. "The end of the world? Who says?"

"Who — who says?" Pitch splutters around a mouthful of pudding. "Everyone! Or, well, the Mayans. And they didn't actually say it; it's their calendar."

"Really?" Jack swings his feet, and sends frost scooting across the park, freezing several pigeons in mid coo. "So, it's like, the Mayans penciled in 'Dentist' on the 14th, 'Pick up Dry Cleaning' on the 17th, 'World Ends in Darkness' on the 21st, and 'Check Batteries in Smoke Alarm' on the 30th?"

"No! No no no, you twit! Their calendar ends on the 21st!"

"You know what I do when I get to the end of _my_ calendar?" Jack asks, tipping his head back to catch snowflakes on his tongue. "I hang up a new one."

"I'm telling you, the world is going to end, and it will be glorious!"

"O~kay." Jack blinks again, and steals one of Pitch's holiday pudding snack packs. "How about we bet on it, since you're so sure the end is, _heh_, nigh. If the world doesn't end; if it's still around on the 22nd, you have to help with Jamie's school play. How about it?"

"Deal!" Pitch shakes Jack's hand — takes back his precious pudding pack — and smacks the back of Jack's head. "Now, when I win—"

"The world will have ended, I'll be gone — and you won't be able to collect! Ha ha!" In a flurry of snowflakes Jack flies from the bench and takes off down the street — along with the rest of the Boogeyman's snack packs.

"What? What was that?" Pitch stands, and shakes his fist in the air — but it's not all that threatening with a pudding-covered fork. "He tricked me! Why, that little...! Did you ever think," he calls out to the retreating Guardian, "it would be worth it, just to get rid of you? Hmph."

Checking the pockets of his ominous cloak, he pulls out a handful of loose change then walks into the market for more pudding.


	21. better

In The Silence

~21~

It's not the same as before. He travels with the Wind, from town to town, from north to south — but it's not the same. There's the matter of a lie between them. A matter of trust breached. And while the Wind apologizes, is truly, honestly contrite, it doesn't change the fact that it has _hurt_ Jack. He'd never before known friends were capable of _hurting_.

It's not the same. The Wind no longer picks him up on a random whim. It asks. And Jack no longer tackles it for there's a doubt planted, _and would the Wind catch him when he needs it the most?_ There's a shadow between them, a shadow he cannot name — but he sees it, all the same. He wishes it wasn't there, but a wish takes belief...

_And the Wind has hurt him._

He knows, though, that it's within his power to hurt the Wind in return. Wind has been alone for a long, long time — _eternity, it told him, but the word holds no meaning_ — and all Jack needs to do is turn away. _Ignore_ the mournful breeze. As easy as that, he could deal a wound from which the Wind will never recover.

_He'll never do it._

His Snowflake sleeps pressed close to his skin, his model of friendship. His Snowflake moonbeam had saved him from his greatest mistake; had _returned_ to him from unimaginable distances that — sometimes — he can almost grasp. _When he dreams of cold and dark, he knows where Snowflake's been._ His Snowflake will never, not ever willingly leave him.

And so he'll never willingly leave the Wind behind.

Together they travel from city to town to struggling settlement, for there are children to play with _and he knows now how precious every moment is._ Jack makes sure that only the softest of snows fall upon them; that only the kindest of breezes brush against their merry faces — for children are fragile. Children are _snowflakes_ — and he'll do everything in his power to see them to the spring.

Spring that comes with the gurgle of melting ice. He can _feel_ the water in the river growing restive, agitated, and ready to resume its long journey to the sea. Under his feet, under the thinning, brittle ice, the river yearns to _be_. Jack sympathizes — and with considerable force he slams the end of his staff down, cracking the ice and setting the river free.

Ice lurches under his feet _which he should have expected_ but he's caught off-guard, too busy laughing at the water's delight. "Whoa!" he yelps, as the floe is pulled by the current, plunging and bucking and doing its best to knock him into the frothing water below. His ice — is no longer _his_, and it has no intention of listening — to anyone.

Keening in worry, the Wind lifts him from the ice before it's broken up entirely. Lifts him, and apologizes for its presumption as it sets him safely ashore. It didn't mean to _not ask_, didn't mean to cross newly set boundaries, but it had been frightened — so terribly frightened — that the frost child might _fall_...

"It's okay." Lifting his hand, he lets the Wind twist through his fingers. "Really." They watch as the river chews through the ice, chews and grinds and _swallows_. "I wouldn't have wanted to be caught in that."

It's not the same, what's growing between the Wind and him. He thinks — in time — it might be better. He doesn't want to examine the thought too closely; thinking brings up memories, and memories can cut as easily as comfort.

Spring has arrived in a torrent, and while he discusses heading north with the Wind — he has no intention of _going_. His village is to the north. And while the world is vast — and he wouldn't need to approach that particular upwelling of pain — he'd really prefer to _not_ take the chance. He'd prefer...

"Wind? Do — Do you think you could find Sandman's island, again?"

_Of course_ the Wind knows the way. They travel across the ocean, high above the shining expanse of water until a golden spire gleams against a twilight horizon. Jack waves enthusiastically at minnow maidens playing in the shallows; clips the tops of waves with his staff, drenching both himself and the maidens in snowflakes and salt. The island of Sleepy Sands, ever-changing, hasn't changed at all — and Jack wraps his arms tightly about his chest, because he's _missed_ the island. He's missed the minnow maidens and the spear-toting shells and his room in the Dreamsand castle. _Missing_ is an ache at the center of his being, and he runs towards the small, golden man who's descending upon his cloud of wisps and dreams.

"Sandman!" Jack cries, as he stumbles and is _caught_ in a hug large enough to comfort the world. The embrace loosens the ache of _missing_; warm, firm hands on his back chase it away completely. "Oh, Sandman!"

He had not known it was possible, to cry and smile both. White hail and beads of golden glass fall unheeded to the beach, while maidens surround them and sing of reunions. And within _warm_ and _gold_ and _safe_ there is the smallest stirring of _fear_. Fear that the man made of sand might be growing weary of a needy frost child constantly seeking his attention. Fear that drives his smile back, leaving only tears. For Jack has walked amongst shadows however briefly, and they've left behind their gift of _doubt_.

(never doubt, frost child. i am here for you, always.)

His smile returns, and maidens brush away the ice from his cheeks with soft murmurs of wonder. He _smiles_ as Sandman takes his hand and leads him to his room in the golden, glowing castle. And he _beams_ with joy as he collapses on his bed of sand, wriggling and turning until there's no part of him not glittering with the stuff of dreams.

"I'm Jack," he says, as snowflakes and children take shape above his head, as his eyelids grow heavy and his breathing deepens. "In... in case you wanted to know... I'm... Jack." A small, gentle hand is brushing back his hair while small, sandy lips press a kiss to his forehead.

(frost child. sand child. dream deep where no darkness can reach.)

Jack wakes and plays in the waves and the tide pools, sleeps and dreams of stars and the Moon. Snowflake, too, awakes one day, long enough to teach him the language of the minnow maidens — which can be any language at all, as long as the words are in rhyme. The moonbeam giggles when he first asks for the lesson, and Jack laughs as well, for laughter loves to be shared.

_'Mermaids, Jack boy, from Zanzibar are what your minnow maidens are!'_ Then Snowflake giggles again, pleased at the unintentional verse. _'Shall we play, frost child? Shall we skate upon the sea?'_

Nodding in agreement, he unthinkingly leaps from the window of his room — and the Wind catches him — _as it always had, and as it always will_ — and Jack shouts in fierce elation. Tackling the Wind, he races it to the beach and together they spend the twilight day amongst the waves and mermaids. The Wind shapes the waves into smooth, curling hillocks while Jack freezes them solid with a smirk and a wave of his staff, and the mermaids climb to the tops of the ice-trapped breakers before sliding down with a splash to the waters below.

Things aren't the same as they were _before_. Before a star believed in the impossible. It's not the same, Jack thinks without regret as the Wind pushes him down the melting slide of aqua ocean into the friendly, helpful grasp of the mermaids singing below. No, not at all the same...

_It's __**so**__ much better._

~o~

_**End Notes: **__And they're friends again! One more transitional piece before the next big story line =D Many many grateful thanks to _Kaylessa_ for the beta._

_Huggles and glomps to _mjbaerman, Jenniyah, RandomKrazyPerson, whylime, FyreFlyte, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Alaia Skyhawk, Anne Camp, Twilight Cardmistress, suddenlysencha, Clio Ying, Master Li, DoomCabbit, Yue Hikari, GrilledCheeseOreos, ForeverWillEnd, oceanlover4evr, Zarelyn, Eternal She-Wolf, Kat, Kaylessa, Crystal Peak, hisokauzumaki, GlassGazer, Alana-kittychan, QueenPersephoneofHades, blackkyu, fourty-eight, bookworm, Xeshirem, gh0st' .Machine, btBatt, UVNight_ and _ThatOneFan_ for their reviews. I'm so sorry I haven't been able to respond. I'll try to answer questions later today — but so many lovely people are reviewing that I'm afraid I'll have no time to work on the story lol! ::huggles all::_

_The biggest question most people have is in regards to Mr. Qwerty. When I quote directly from the books in my notes, I'll give the book's name and the page number the quote is from. Mr. Qwerty is strictly a literary device I'm employing to give y'all bits of story you otherwise wouldn't have access to. Since _Silence_ is in Jack's pov — the story can only cover things Jack knows. Thankfully we have Mr. Qwerty, whose willing to share Esse's background information ^o^ Mr. Qwerty's excerpts are to in no way be mistaken for Mr. Joyce's work =D_

_Thank you so much for reading. I hope your day is filled with winning scratch cards, lucky pennies, and hot fudge. See you back here tomorrow for the next part!_

~o~

Pitch sits upon a sticky, graffiti-covered bus stop bench. He _appears_ to be eating a pudding snack. It _appears_ that the pudding snack is flavored s'mores. Today, however, it _appears_ that he's eating his treat with a white, plastic spork. _Apparently_, that part he doesn't seem to be enjoying as much.

Jack flies towards the bench and tosses something at the Boogeyman before sitting next to him. Well, he doesn't actually sit upon the bench, since it is sticky with unidentifiable substances, but he does do a fair imitation of sitting.

Pitch stares at the can of chips he's caught. He stares — and blinks — and though he will never admit it, his hand trembles as foreboding inches down his spine. "White Chocolate Peppermint potato chips? Really?"

Jack raises one eyebrow pointedly, while tossing the bag of baby carrots Bunny had packed for his lunch into the nearby trashcan. "Says the man eating s'mores pudding. Nice spork, by the way."

If Pitch is blushing there's no one brave enough to call him out on it. "I happened to fall asleep while waiting for the bus, and some cretin had the gall to steal my fork. My _fork_!" Tossing the spork to the ground with a look of disgust, he pops open the can of chips and uses the top one to scoop up pudding. "I mean, does no one respect _fear_ any more?" Shoving both pudding and chip into his mouth, Pitch chews vindictively.

"I can't believe you just did that."

"Did what?" Pitch asks innocently, sticking out a tongue covered in duel-colored pudding and crushed pieces of holiday-flavored potato chip.

"Okay, scaring people and grossing them out are two different things!" Shuddering, Jack tries to tear his gaze away from the horrific sight — but can't. "Ugh!" To take his mind off the image, he freezes the sidewalk in front of them, then smirks as a teen on a skateboard skids across the slippery surface into the scraggly bushes lining the sidewalk. "So. Waiting for the bus, huh? Not sticking around for the end of the world?"

"Please. The end of the world is global. I just need to get away from this city. Look! There's an army of malformed North clones infesting the streets! Ringing bells! Handing candy canes to children!" Pitch takes another bite of chip and pudding, but this time he swallows before speaking. "The question is, how can you doubt the world is coming to an end? What more proof do you need? Listen: Do you hear it? That's the sound of doom!"

"Uh. No. I'm pretty sure that's the sound of _Silver Bells_."

Startled, Pitch listens with more care. "Perhaps. But you can't deny it's a terrible, soul-crushing, instrumental version of _Silver Bells_ — betokening doom!"

Jack continues to listen, then grudgingly nods in agreement. "Yeah, I'll give you that. But the street corner Santas? They're around every year."

"Every year?" When Pitch goes pale, he actually goes a strange shade of grey that clashes horrifically with his ominous — yet stylish — cloak. "Every — single — year? I usually lay low around this time in an attempt to escape North's tacky Christmas sweaters, but I didn't want to miss the apocalypse. Thank goodness the world ends tomorrow. I'd hate to have to live through — how many more days of this?"

"Well, the big day is the 25th, but most of the decorations will stay up until New Years."

"And you want the world to continue on?" Huddling within the safety of his cloak, Pitch pointedly looks away from a boy using the bent tines of his fork to clean the treads of muck-encrusted sneakers. "Although I must admit, there's something horrifically appealing about these chips."

"Ugh. Seeing you _enjoy_ those things is pretty convincing. The world _must_ be ending. Is it too late to change my bet?"


	22. ask

In The Silence

~22~

Time flows past Jack as a gentle stream, something that wets the tips of his toes but otherwise has no impact. When he feels the enticing call he'll chase after winter, but there's no urgency, no pressing _need_ driving him forward. He dawdles and _plays_ and might spend weeks over a single town, learning by heart the faces of new children. Then, when he tires, he returns to his room in the Dreamsand castle on the island of Sleepy Sands, and there he'll tell Sandman — who's always smiling, _always_ so glad to welcome him _home_ — of the games he has learned, and the tricks that he's played.

He knows that he babbles, a constant flow of observations and of questions as well as bits of song interspersed with nonsense. He tries to stop it; tries covering his mouth with both his hands, or by pinching his lips shut, but years of conversation have built up inside and Jack can no more halt the words than he can prevent the coming of summer. Sandman only smiles; listens and smiles and beckons him to sit closer as they watch the mermaids play.

"Sandman?" Jack asks one twilight day, as warrior shells rage mock battle across his splayed legs. "How is it that I can travel so fast in dreams? I fall asleep in my room, and before I know it I'm at my lake! And when I wake up, I'm back in my room. Not even the wind can move that swiftly."

The man of sand smiles _golden and delighted_ before fondly patting his shoulder. (it is the magic of dreams. dreams can take you anywhere.)

Jack's not entirely happy with the answer; he wants to know _why_ and he wants to know _how_ and he'd like to learn to travel in the blink of an eye when he's awake, but the mermaids are waving him towards the shore, and playing is ever-so-much more fun than questions without proper answers.

The mermaids have been sporting with an iridescent bubble of sea foam and song, but one of the maidens has batted the bubble too high, and their make-shift ball teasingly refuses to fall. One by one the maidens take turns leaping from the sea in an attempt to reach it, but the bubble only burbles with glee and floats higher. "Star child, friend of all, won't you help to fetch our ball?"

Eagerly he lets the Wind sweep him off his feet. As he flies pass the bubble he grabs it and tosses it back towards the swirling sea, where scaled tails and finned hands set it back in motion. Floating slowly down, he bats at the bubble each time it tries to escape, and soon the air is full of spume and snowflakes.

"Although I haven't one regret, why must water be so _wet_?"

Mermaid laughter is a sound of sea spray and prisms, and while Jack doesn't get an answer, he does receive cool, moist hugs as he joins the maidens in their swimming.

Time flows past Jack as a complacent river, wide and lazy with no immediate goal. He follows winter to the north, past purple-hued mountains that rise high to the east, over his lake bordered by new sapling pines and down the canyon to the ruins of the village below. He paces the rough outline of the village square, cobbles covered in accumulated dust and debris; leans against the downed lumber that once made up his girl-child's house. The Wind is with him, its voice forlorn, as he sits upon a stump in what once was — a lifetime ago, a village's lifetime ago — a pumpkin patch.

"Do you remember?" he asks the Wind, quiet as only falling snow can be. "This is where my general of winter played. Do you remember? Remember the mistake we made with her muffler? _Oh, Wind,_ do you remember how we buried the homes? Remember... Remember the sound of roofs collapsing? I remember, Wind. _I remember._"

He'd been warned away from his lake, for _water was not an elephant_, but the Wind has no answers for the ache inside him; a hot, burning pain that catches in his throat and builds behind his eyes. The waters of his lake are reassuring; dim, and cold, and familiar. He sits on the bottom staring upwards towards the surface, and most nights the Moon stares silently back down — but it's a companionable silence, which he only occasionally breaks with questions.

"Why must children die, Moon? Why must they grow up? Why... why can I not be with them? I want to be with them. Wouldn't it be better, if we could play together always?"

The Moon doesn't answer, never answers, but Jack knows, _knows_ that the Moon has asked the very same questions, over and over, and over and over again. He thinks that, perhaps, there is no proper answer to be found. And, eventually, the burning ache of _loss_ inside him is eased by icy water — and while he still remembers — _he's not that forgetful_ — he's able to leave the confinement of his lake and move on. To new towns. And new children.

Time moves past Jack like the tides of a sea, rising towards him then rushing away. An afternoon spent in a snowball fight seems as long to him as a week spent turning a blizzard from stranded wagons where children huddle underneath blankets and the sheltering arms of their parents. He travels upon the broad shoulders of the Wind, beckoning winter to follow. And when he grows tired _as all children do_ he returns home to his golden Dreamsand room.

"Why must children fall asleep?" he asks, his head resting in Sandman's lap as they watch the distant stars twinkle in merry greeting. He hides a yawn behind a pale hand, as grains of gold fill his vision. "It seems — such a waste of time. I hardly... ever... get anything... done, in... dreams..."

The man of sand comes and goes, for he has a job that needs doing. There are times, though, when his smile grows exceptionally wide, and he'll motion Jack to join him on his cloud of wisps and dreams. Together they follow the edge of night, and Jack lets streamers of sand run through his fingers to form snowflakes and snowmen and snow angels. And at first he's not sure if his attempts at helping are welcome; he's learned that winter can be a hard, feared season — and he doesn't _know_ if he's being cruel, filling children's dreams with cold.

_He never wants to make a child cry. It's the most terrible sound in all the world._

But Sandman simply, _always_ smiles; smiles reassurance and joy. (kind child. these are the children who wish for snow. will you visit them?)

Jack leaps from the Dreamsand cloud to the back of the Wind, and casts the tiniest scrap of his shadow across the earth. Soft and deep snow falls, on homes with unshuttered windows and across fields recently harvested. And when he lands it's on a window sill that shines bright with candlelight. And when he peeks in through frost flowers blooming across glass, it's to the sight of children dreaming of sleds racing down pure white drifts.

"Do you think they'll like it?" he asks the moonbeam hanging from a stretched grass cord, nestled against his heart. "Have I done well, Snowflake?"

_'So very well, Jack boy,'_ the moonbeam answers, before slipping back into sweet slumber. _'Snow days are the best days; the most magical days of all.'_

He plays with the children, and it's always winter, and time is meaningless to Jack. Meaningless, until one twilight day as he chases shells along Nappish sand beaches and practices the language of butterflies — that has a thousand words for today, but not a single word for tomorrow — he's overcome by pain. A sharp pain like a memory not yet worn bearable by water. A pain that has him rising in the air and calling desperately for the Wind.

Time has confronted Jack, and will not be denied. He _feels_ it, though he's half a world away.

_There's a child swimming in his lake._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ ^_^ And lots and lots of time has passed lol! Beta done by _Kaylessa_, to whom I owe many huggles :D_

_Many grateful thanks to _Twilight Cardmistress, whylime, Alaia Skyhawk, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, RandomKrazyPerson, atimus, Crystal Peak, UVNight, Kaylessa, Clio Ying, gh0st' .Machine, !A4E!, Yue Hikari, Alana-kittychan, fourty-eight, Anne Camp, oceanlover4evr, ForeverWillEnd, , mjbaerman, Xeshirem,_ and _Master Li_ for their reviews. Thank you so much! I'm terribly sorry that I don't have time to respond, but I'll do my best to catch up after the holidays ^^;; Which, I know, is a terribly long time - but the holidays are rather demanding o.o_

_And since holidays are demanding, Grumpy!Jack showed up, demanding AU tribute drabble._

~o~

Ombric spent his time puttering around Big Root, mixing up elixirs and unguents for the brave, wounded stranger that had saved the children of Santoff Claussen from the Bear. While Bear had recovered nicely - if he did say so himself - and while there was no force of shadow strong enough to bring the children's spirits down for long, the stranger was another story entirely. His healing was a slow process, hampered by fevers and nightmares that even Ombric with all his years upon years of knowledge could not disperse.

To make matters worse, a storm besieged Santoff Claussen; a storm of ice and wind that would not yield to Ombric's gentle persuasions. It was unheard of! Ombric had helped in the creation of time. Had offered his expert advice regarding how and where gravity should be implemented. He'd invented bouncy balls! Yet one simple blizzard had so far stymied his every effort to shoo it away.

The children were growing restless. Though Big Root provided an ever-changing array of diversions, the children wanted to play outside - and though their parents explained to them the dangers of a storm so wild, so misbehaved, the children very much wanted to see for themselves. Which led to Ombric spending more time pulling children away from trapdoors and unlatched windows and less time spent tending the courageous stranger.

"Watch over him, Katherine," Ombric told the girl as he dressed in his warmest fur-lined robe. "I must find what fell power is behind this storm."

Ombric summoned the Spirit of the Forest, and she came through the howling wind and stinging snow, her jeweled veils heavy under a thick coating of frost. She came with a stiff formality that the wizard had never before seen, and it took him aback - but a wizard's curiosity comes from much deeper wells than a wizard's sense of caution. It is, after all, why there are so few wizards remaining in the world.

"Spirit," Ombric addressed her. "Do you know who has set this storm upon us? Do you know why this blizzard is contrary; why it will not heed my orders?"

She stared at him with steady, jewel-tone eyes; stared as wind whipped around her and past the wizard, through the door of Big Root itself. "You've kept him from his child, Ombric. With all your magical barriers and defenses - the strongest of which was the barred door of Big Root - you prevented him from providing succor to his son. It has angered him greatly, and we should be grateful that he's withheld the worst of his wrath."

"Withheld?" Ombric twirled a curl of his beard between two fingers, deep in thought. "All the parents have access to their children at Big Root. I've denied no one their child, let alone some other wizard who has unfairly beset us with storm. Tell me the name of this man who believes I have somehow wronged him, Spirit."

The Spirit of the Forest shook her head sadly as a tear of pearl rolled down her cheek. "It is no man you've offended, Ombric, but winter. Winter's ward lays wounded under your care - and winter takes his responsibilities most seriously."

"Nonsense," the wizard muttered, dismissing the Spirit back to her forest. "Winter is but a season," he said to himself as he walked back into Big Root, locking the door behind him. "Not some cranky Grandfather out of one of the children's story books." It was time and past time for him to check on the stranger, for the Spirit of the Forest's rustic superstitions had kept him over long. "How absurd, to accuse me of taking winter's son! Why..."

Katherine was fast asleep in her chair, and there was a youth standing over the stranger, a child Ombric did not know. No child of Santoff Claussen was so starveling lean, nor so very pale in coloration. No child Ombric had ever known in all his dozens of centuries had eyes filled with such terrible, cold knowledge capable of _anything_ at all.

"He's hurt," the youth said, his voice composed, and he seemed unconcerned over the pool of frost spreading across the wooden floor.

"It's the fever," Ombric explained as he tried to step forward, but a gust of wind pushed him back. He blinked against the unexpected assault; blinked again at the bitterness burning from the youth's clear blue eyes. "I've not yet been able to break his fever."

"Some wizard." Scowling, the youth placed the palm of his hand against the stranger's forehead, and as he did so his harsh expression softened into something like fondness. "Undone by a little fever. Tch."

The bright flush that had marked the stranger's cheeks since his wounding faded, leaving behind the first signs of health. And the stranger, who'd been haunted by nightmares every night, gave a gentle sigh and leaned into the youth's touch.

"_Papa,_" the stranger whispered from the depths of a dream that had brought the start of a winsome smile to his lips.

"...Nicholas." Unspeakable loss filled the youth's blazing gaze, and he lifted his hand from the stranger's head. "_You_," he addressed Ombric, and there was a staff in his hands that the wizard discovered he was afraid of. "You will leave a window open for me from this time forward. Do you understand? You will not keep me from him."

"But Pitch-"

"The Nightmare King will come in due time - but that time is not now." The youth shook his head, and snowflakes fell gently over the sleeping stranger, who gave a surprisingly childish giggle before settling deeper into dream. "Now is the time for you to guard him. Teach him, wizard. Teach him your secrets, and show him the wonders he's missed."

The pain in the youth's face was too much to bear, and Ombric had to avert his gaze. Had to look away, and so missed the youth's departure. His last words, though, lingered in the unusually cool air of Big Root.

_"Give to him those things I was forced to take."_

~o~

_And, of course, Pitch hasn't given up hope on the end of the world..._

~o~

Pitch sits upon a wood-slat bench inside a busy mall. He _appears_ to be eating from a plastic pudding cup. It _appears_ the pudding cup is flavored Root Beer Float. It _appears_ that - having lost his fork and thrown away his spork - that he is eating the pudding with a perfectly flat, slightly splintered wooden ice cream spoon. It does not _appear_, however, that he is in a good mood.

Jack walks up to the bench, and hands the Boogeyman an extremely large, extremely over sweetened Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino - blended, with extra whipped cream and dark chocolate curls. He then sits as well, and sucks aggressively on the straw stuck into his own Frappuccino. "I've gotta ask: What is with all the pudding?"

Pitch grimaces as he tries, without success, to suck something up through the straw of his newly acquired drink. "If you must know, pudding is the most apocalyptic of the convenience foods."

"Pudding - is apocalyptic."

"Exactly." Setting the drink aside, Pitch demonstrates by stirring the Root Beer Float pudding with the wooden spoon, then slowly pulling the utensil from the cup with a slimy, suction-y noise. "Did you hear? That is the sound of apathetic doom. There's no other sound quite like it."

"Ye~ah. _That_ is absolutely disgusting." Jabbing viciously at his drink with the straw, Jack accidentally knocks over his staff, freezing the decorative fountain behind him. "Unfortunately, I think your pudding is going to be the extent of this year's Armageddon. Looks like I win."

"Win? Win?!" Mouth agape, Pitch points to the crowds around them. "Look at the humans, panicking like sheep! Running to save their own miserable lives, with no care for those they're trampling underfoot!"

"Same as every year." Jack gives an unconcerned shrug. "They're Christmas shoppers. What do you expect?"

"Christmas shoppers?" Pitch repeats somewhat numbly. "_Christmas shoppers_? What do you mean, every year?"

"I mean, they're shopping for Christmas presents, and seeing as how Christmas is now only four days away, they're getting desperate. If you really want to see crazed mobs, though, show up for Black Friday next year."

"_Black Friday._" It sounds almost as though the humans have created a holiday solely for the Boogeyman - and he's intrigued. "Do tell me more... Wait, no. There's no need. For a moment I forgot that the world is ending today. Silly me!"

With a sigh, Jack freezes his balled up straw wrapper and flicks it at a woman busily mowing down shoppers with her child's stroller. "The world's not ending."

"Really? Then what do you call - that!" Dramatically, Pitch points to a line of beatifically smiling people. "I'll tell you what: The Rapture!"

"No... they're just happy that it's almost their turn to enter the Apple Store."

Pitch blinks, then blinks again, because no part of that statement makes sense. "Then... Then over there!" He turns his pointing finger to where a great swarm of people are struggling, yelling, and clinging to each other. "Ragnarok!"

"Food Court."

"There then!" By now, the finger he points to the weeping, sorrowful crowd huddled around a kiosk is trembling.

"Paying their cell phone bills."

Pitch slurps at his Frappuccino through a straw purposefully designed with too narrow a diameter to transport the thick drink, and Jack slurps at his Frappuccino through an identically flawed straw, and they watch the chaos swell and ebb around their bench.

"I still have until midnight, you know."

"Uh huh."

"On Samoa!"

Jack smirks as he tosses his undrinkable drink into the trash. "Sure thing. _Samoa_. Heh. See you _tomorrow_, Boogeyman."

~o~

_Happy holidays, everyone! Huggles and the best of luck in finding that perfect, last-minute gift!_


	23. prayer

In The Silence

~23~

There is a child swimming in his lake, but there's nothing he can do. It's a physical ache, a tremble that won't leave his hands, and he wants nothing more than to _go_ and _look_. But summer is currently ruling the north; a particularly harsh summer if the increase in children's wishes for snow are anything to go by.

_Sandman thinks it's because Jack has made winter a friend to the children, but he isn't as sure; it's so much easier to believe in the power of summer than in himself._

There is a child _constantly_ jumping in his lake. Daily. Hourly. And each splash is like a feather ran across his shoulders and the back of his neck. He doesn't remember feeling this way, when _his_ children had come to his lake to play. He doesn't know if something is wrong _or if something is finally right._ The constant _presence_ never quite goes away — and he's distracted from what the mermaids have kindly termed 'his duties'.

_As if fun could be a duty!_

He wants to go. He wants to _look_. Summer, though, is only just fading into the gentler golds and oranges of autumn in the north. Jack spends too much time pacing the shores of the island; pacing in time to the marching shells; tapping his staff to the rattle of their spears. Longing pulls at him, and an abiding nervousness — for the child, whatever sort of child it might be — is no longer swimming in his lake...

But the child is _his_. He can _feel_ the fragile thread of belonging tugging at his _self_. There is a child by his lake that is _entirely his_ and Jack doesn't even know their face. He doesn't _know_. Except. His child is _calling_, wanting to play.

He _needs_ to go. He _has_ to look. And the Wind is equally anxious. Winter _must_ come early to the north — or at least to one lone valley. The incessant pull leaves Jack no _choice_. They leave the island made of dreams and sand, Wind and him and his perplexed shadow of gathering, confused cloud. They leave the island in a flurry of snow and well wishes, and travel the high paths above the dinner plate world where the Wind is at its fiercest as well as its fastest. And Jack tugs at his shadow as it starts to fall behind, because he _needs_ it. He can not wait for snow to fall on its own.

_Winter must come early._

From the breathless heights the Wind plunges, over the peaks of the eastern mountains to the valley below. There is such force in its dive that the tips of evergreens bend to near snapping; such cold accumulated from the high paths that unsuspecting trees are iced over in seconds. And Jack laughs in sheer excitement, for he's moving at speeds he's only before managed in dreams. "Wind, over there!" he points out, at a single spark of golden light near the winding river.

The valley is flooded with frigid air, and his shadow is pouring in thick dollops through the mountain passes — and it's _just_ enough to drive back stubborn autumn. With a rapturous shriek Jack jumps from the Wind to the damp surface of his lake, a surface that ripples once before freezing hard. Then, nearly stumbling in his haste, he runs through the forest as frost flows in wide streaks from his staff, because there's _a light in his village_ and a child is calling.

_But his village isn't there._

There's only the vaguest outline of the village square; a sense of cobbles underneath a protective layer of dirt and an unevenness that catches at his toes. Lumber, too, is hidden beneath soil, and dry, brittle grass rattles atop the mounded remains of houses. His village is well and truly buried, and he bites at his lip as he realizes the foolishness of his hope. He'd buried it too well, and it has been too long: Villages are not reborn from winter.

There is, though, a _light_. In the distance a lantern glows through a thick, swirled pane of glass. And with a last, lost glance at his village, Jack chases after the flickering light, through a grove of trees — to his children's clearing.

It's a cabin, built of logs. A cabin, squatting low to the ground. A _cabin_ has been built upon the bones of his children! It is — an impossibility. _He doesn't understand._ Who would. who could. _do such a thing!_

There's a child _his child_ inside the cabin, but it doesn't matter, because _his children_ are _underneath the cabin_. Underneath. the. "No!" Around him his shadow gathers as if it were lead instead of blizzard. And he screams his outrage, a whirlwind wail of ice and fury. Even the Wind is taken aback at the ferocity — it doesn't understand, how could the Wind understand? — but it takes up the lament, willing to help.

Together, they'd brought down his village. One small cabin will be no challenge at all.

Only — it continues to stand. Through nights and dark days the cabin withstands his shadow. Though the Wind tears off shingles and pulls at the planks of the door — it stands. Jack strikes at the logs with his staff until frozen bark snaps off; strikes deeper until unprotected heartwood is exposed — but the cabin remains. He slaps at the window, over and over until ice is thicker than glass and Snowflake is begging, _'Please, Jack boy, please! You must stop! Please stop! This is madness!'_ but — it — _stands_.

He slumps in front of the cabin, his rage spent, replaced by a horrified grief that leaves him sobbing against the door. And the Wind eddies about, unsure, so unsure, as his shadow pauses, gathering strength from despair. "I — just want you to go," Jack says brokenly, his voice hoarse from so much screaming. "Just go. You don't belong here. Anywhere — but _here_."

And the door opens. Opens, and a man walks out, coated and capped and gloved but _still cold_, shivering within his layers. A man who raises his hands to the hidden Moon above in supplication — only it is not the Moon to whom his wish is directed, but Jack's _shadow_. And Jack knows, somehow _knows_ without knowing that it's not a wish rushing past the man's lips — but a _prayer_.

"I beg of you, winter!" the man says, his voice clear in the sudden, sharp stillness of the clearing. "Please, forgive us whatever trespass we've committed. We meant no harm! Spare us, oh spirit, from your wrath. Please, please lift your hand — and spare our family. Please, winter, show my children your smiling face!"

It is a _prayer_ — and it binds Jack in chains of belief as strong as a star's. Wraps around him and _ties_ him to the cabin. _Ties_ him to the woman peering from the safety of the door, and the two children peeking from underneath her skirts; children _one of which is somehow __**his**__ and what has he done? What has he __**done**__?_

"Papa?" the little boy asks, edging past the doorway's lintel. "Is — is the blizzard finally over?"

The boy is _his child_ — but it is the _man_ that stares down at him in astonishment. It is the _man_ whose prayer has _bound_ him. And it is the man that _sees_ him, as he sharply waves his family back inside the cabin.

"I'm _sorry_!" Jack cries, scurrying back in the snow _but he can't leave the clearing._ "I'm so sorry!" The man _sees_ him, and _knows_ what he has done — and his _belief_ has stranded him on the ground. "Please! I just want you to go!"

The man sees him, but doesn't _hear_. Has _bound_ him, without knowing what he has caught. And when he reaches out with his gloved hand, Jack can _almost_ feel his hesitant touch — and it fills him with fear.

"What are you?" the man whispers, awe on his face as his fingers pass through Jack as if he were no more than air. "What _are_ you, child? Spirit? Or _demon?_"

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ ^^;; Uh-oh. Poor Jack. And now we have an official, firm date. Welcome to the bitter winter of 1795 ;) Bet you all were wondering why I kept mentioning the Thaddeus Burgess plaque. Okay, prolly none of you were wondering... Beta by _Kaylessa_, who has raised several issues that has me scratching my head and scrambling to figure out how to answer. You rock!_

_Many many many thanks to _Clio Ying, Alaia Skyhawk, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Crystal Peak, whylime, ThatOneFan, Eternal She-Wolf, fourty-eight, UVNight, Kaylessa, untamabledragon144, blackkyu, Alana-kittychan, Yue Hikari, oceanlover4evr, Master Li, RandomKrazyPerson, gh0st' .Machine, Twilight Cardmistress, Guest, Bookworm Gal, August Mayhem,_ and _ForeverWillEnd_ for their reviews. Thank you so much for taking the time to read, and letting me know you're still enjoying the story!_

_And, I just wanted to issue a little aside for everyone that's patiently waiting for their _Guardians_ books to arrive. Don't expect them to be anything like the movie ^^;; The books are written much more like fairytales, and they are children's books. And Jack isn't in the first three. Just wanted to warn you, in case you were expecting him to show up o.o I personally love children's books!_

_Oh, poor, poor Pitch. Who's feeling very sorry for himself..._

~o~

Pitch is sitting on a concrete bench at a train station. It _appears_ that he has spent his night devouring dozens of shelf-stable pudding snack packs. It _appears_ that he's gone beyond holiday flavors into add-ins and mix-ins and gelatin layers. It _appears_ that, giving up on silverware entirely, he'd begun eating the pudding with his fingers. It _appears_ that while the end of the world may not have materialized, Pitch's world has been reduced to a tummy-ache of world-ending proportions.

Jack flies up, and it takes several minutes of throwing away empty plastic cups before there's space for him to sit on the bench. "Wow. Just — wow. Looking a little glum here, Boogeyman."

Groaning, Pitch scrapes dried pudding from underneath his fingernails. "They threw parties. Parties! There was supposed to be an Earth-shattering cataclysm, and they gathered in all the old, dark places and drank themselves sick! Have you seen the alter at Uxmal?" Dark, syrupy tears ooze from the corners of his eyes. "Do these mortals hold nothing sacred? All I asked for was a little fear. Perhaps a volcanic eruption or three. Maybe one teeny tiny micro-singularity."

"Well..." Jack looks unsure, as if he wants to somehow offer a comforting pat, but is afraid of actually touching the pudding-covered Boogeyman. "There's still a chance of Apophis smacking into the planet in 2036. That's just another 24 years. It would be both dark, and cold."

"Oh, don't try to cheer me up; we both know the odds on Apophis." Pitch sniffles, and digs around in his cloak for a monogrammed hankie. Finding it, he blows his nose, in the process scattering more empty plastic pudding cups. "So, did you bring anything to snack on today?"

"Yeah. Like you need any more junk food." Jack reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, and pulls out a roll of antacids. "Tums?"

"Yes, please." Pitch chews on Tums, coating his tongue in chalky white.

"Carrot stick?"

"Why not." Together, they munch on carrot sticks and celery sticks and little radishes carved into roses — because Bunny was bound and determined to ruin Christmas and he was starting with the party appetizer trays at North's Workshop. "This is, without doubt, the most depressing holiday season I've ever had. And I'm the Boogeyman, for crying out loud!"

"Well, this should cheer you up." With a mischievous, carrot-specked grin, Jack hands Pitch a bundle of papers. "Jamie's play."

Pitch flicks through the pages — and his jaw drops. "You _have_ to be joking."

"No, no," Jack assures him, now floating a foot above the bench. "I'm playing Jack—"

"Because you're already practically skeletal."

"—Yeah! And Jamie's sweet-talked North into taking his role."

With a groan, Pitch leans his head back against the bench. "And I don't suppose it's occurred to you that no one will be able to see me?"

"That's just it! All the kids _expect_ to see the Boogeyman in this play!"

"See the Boogeyman _destroyed_, you mean."

Jack shakes his head, and his grin morphs into something wolfish. "Not this time. I already ran the changes by Jamie — and he thinks they're great. 'Cause, you know, I owe North for all those years without presents."

"Hmm?" With a bit more interest, Pitch reads through his lines — and begins laughing. A booming, cackling, slightly hysterical laugh. "North hasn't read this, has he?"

"Nope!"


	24. caught

In The Silence

~24~

Jack does not like the man. Doesn't like the way he stares and _reaches_ as though he has some right. Jack is Snowflake's boy and the Wind's dearest companion — but this man has put some claim on him, a _restriction_ that he can barely breathe around. The man has _trapped_ him, ensnared him with belief and the look of wonder shining from his wide, brown eyes.

"Wind!" he pleads, desperate for help, and though the Wind tries, whisks through the clearing strongly enough to pick up dead leaves and small branches, it cannot lift him. Cannot _touch_ him. At all. So Jack runs, runs towards the forest, but it's as if some dreadful wall blocks his path _and he cannot leave the clearing._

The man is following him, his booted feet sinking heavily through the drifting snow. Following him _and he will not stop staring_ and Jack raises his staff protectively — but there isn't a speck of frost upon the ancient wood. And fear bubbles up that has nothing to do with rats.

"I said I was sorry!" Jack shouts, his back pressed hard against the invisible barrier _that's ever so cold._ It must be cold, because he's shaking, the same as children shake when they've played outdoors with him too long. _Don't children shake when they're cold?_ "I stopped the storm. Please!"

But the man does not hear him. "No, no demon," the man mutters. He reaches out once more with his gloved hand and Jack flinches away from the almost touch. Flinches and huddles under the dubious shelter of his tattered cloak, his cape forming a make-shift hood to block out a world grown incomprehensible and threatening — and so he doesn't see dismay join with the tremendous awe on the man's face. "No demon would answer my prayer..."

"Thaddeus," the woman calls from the doorway of the cabin. "What's keeping you? Is something out there? Did the blizzard drive down wolves from the mountains?"

The man — _Thaddeus_ — looks to his wife, then back to Jack, who, curled within his dark brown cloak, knows he is in no way hidden against the brilliantly white expanse of snow. He's never had to _hide_ before — at least, not from anything other than _mad yellow_ eyes. Thaddeus _looks_ at Jack, and Jack has no choice but to look back.

"No, Rachel," the man finally says while straightening, a strange frown pulling down upon his lips. "Not wolves. I'll be in, just give me a minute." The cabin door closes and the clearing is lit by the unconcerned face of the Moon filtering through the remnants of Jack's shadow.

Sensing the man's distraction, Jack claws at the barrier separating him from the forest. Keeping him from his lake. _Stealing_ him from the Wind. He scratches, and slaps, and pounds on it with bruising force until movement catches his attention. The man has taken another step forward — and Jack dodges past him, to the other side of the clearing.

"Easy," Thaddeus says, his voice a low whisper. "It's okay. I'll stay over here. Child, where did you come from?"

There's no point in answering; why answer when the man can't hear him? But the binding _demands_; forces the answer from behind his clenched teeth. "The lake. I'm from the lake." His answer, though, goes completely unheard.

Eventually the man sighs. Sighs, and shakes his head in sad acceptance. "It's okay, child. Keep your distance. I just wanted to thank you, for stopping the storm." Another sigh — but while the man might be defeated, his _belief_ has _crippled_ Jack.

He watches as the man returns to the cabin; stays frozen in place until the door closes then makes another attempt on the barrier. _It's too cold_, and his fingernails slip across the surface, catching on nothing. He tries jumping — but he's _tied_ to the ground, and it will not release him. The Wind wraps around him in an attempt to comfort, an attempt to _shove_ him over the wall, but he can't. _feel_. his friend.

"_Snowflake,_" he moans, cupping the pendant between his hands as he collapses between the unforgiving ground and the impervious barrier. "What happened? What's _happening_ to me?"

It's a long, long moment before the moonbeam responds, and Jack can barely hear it over the silence of the clearing. _'I — I don't know. Oh, be careful, frost child. There's a spell...'_ And though Jack waits, _waits_ for the moonbeam to finish explaining, he hears nothing but the howl of absolute silence.

"Snowflake? ..._Snowflake?!_" He can sense the faint, feeble presence of the moonbeam — but nothing else. He can sense the Wind's distress — but nothing else. He can _feel_ an empty echo as he wraps himself around his staff...

_...but nothing else._

He weeps until well past dawn. Weeps tears of hail that the Wind gathers into small, concealing piles. He would have given anything to be with his children once more — but not like this. Not _ever_ like this — trapped above their graves. He weeps as the man opens the door of the cabin and walks across the windswept snow. He doesn't try to escape. There's no escape from the man's belief. Jack weeps for all that is lost. He hadn't known he'd had so much to _lose_.

"Child..." Thaddeus crouches, but is wiser this time and keeps his hands firmly upon his knees. "Haven't you a home to go to? Some heaven you've escaped from?"

Jack nods. He wants to go home. He wants his Dreamsand room of glittering, golden grains. He wants to be at Sandman's feet, spreading dreams to sleeping children. He wants to be hidden in the storm-strewn hair of the cruel-kind woman as she strides through the forest, for _none_ would dare bar _her_ path. _He wants to go home._

"Then what's keeping you here?"

_Keeping him here?!_ Snarling, he slams his fist against the barrier — strikes, and a trickle of lake water runs down his wrist. "You are! _You are!_ Stop believing in me!" He tries to form a snowball from the drift surrounding him, wants to _hit_ the man in the face with ice — but not a single snowflake will cling to his fingers. _Not even ice can hear him._

"—You're trapped here." Giving a violent nod, Jack wraps his stinging hand in the folds of his cloak, and Thaddeus sits heavily in the snow, unmindful of the cold. "You're trapped here. —How, child? What could possibly ensnare a spirit?"

The man cannot hear him — and the man has no idea what he has captured. He had prayed for winter's mercy, and caught a frost child instead. But the man has _no idea_. at. all. of the dreadful spell he has cast. The spell that every child knows. A spell lost to _almost_ every adult.

Thaddeus _believes_ as no adult should, and Jack is powerless against it.

"It's okay, child. I'll find a way to free you."

With a howl the man _cannot hear_ Jack runs away, around the cabin to the woodpile stacked in the back and clambers atop it. Climbs until he's tucked under the sheltering eave, then glares as an owl would when disturbed from its rest. Glares as Thaddeus comes into view.

"I swear I mean you no harm, spirit."

Days pass, and Jack spends them in relentless pacing, the palm of his hand dragging against the barrier, searching for some flaw he might slip through. Nights pass, and Jack spends them up under the eave, for the Moon is as silent as ever and not even its light offers comfort. The children dream of joyful impossibilities, but Jack's unable to touch the soft streamers of gold that surround him. Time — passes, and Jack spends it babbling to the Wind; to his Snowflake moonbeam; to the lady who doesn't come, though he calls and calls and calls. To himself. Words upon words upon words — even if he's the only one that can hear them. He has a _voice_, and it helps push back the creeping doubt... He _must_ exist. _Thaddeus_ can see him.

"My wife, her name is Rachel," the man tells him one day while sitting on a log he's yet to split. The man comes to him _every_ day, asking the same questions over and again in a soft, gentle tone. And while he doesn't look forward to the man's visits — Jack has come to crave them.

"Rachel. That's a pretty name. Is she baking today? It smells like bread. There's another storm coming. She needs to get her baking done. Rachel needs to get her baking done. It's such a pretty name."

"My daughter is Sarah. Named after my sister she was, God bless her soul." Thaddeus is watching him. He's _always_ watching him, but today there's a new, faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes. "And my son is Theodore, although we all call him Teddy."

_His boy. Thaddeus is talking about __**his**__ boy._

"I'm thinking," the man says, taking note of Jack's sudden fierce attention, "of letting them out to play in the yard. They've been terribly cooped up this winter. Dare I, spirit? Would you offer them harm?"

Shaking his head in frantic denial, Jack jumps from the woodpile to the snow below; kneels and _grovels_ at the man's booted feet. He'd never hurt the children. _Not his children._ No. No, he'd never hurt a child, not ever again, and _please, let the children out to play._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Hopefully Mr. Qwerty will be along tomorrow to shed some light on Thaddeus ^_^ And my wonderful beta _Kaylessa_ asked if the poor kids have really been stuck inside all this time (oh, what of the outhouse?!) to which the answer is — yes, they go outside for that :D Thaddeus just hasn't let them out to play. But, umm... I can't seem to get that to fit in the story (because everytime Thaddeus starts to explain the business of "business" I start laughing, and poor Jack is horrified that humans are so icky!)._

_No drabbles at the end of this part because the flu's come early to Esse's house. The play, however, will go on! —You just might need to wait a few days for it ^^;; Right now, Esse is depending on her buffer, and will need to catch up on her writing once she's feeling better._

_Many thanks to _Bookworm Gal, Alaia Skyhawk, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, ThatOneFan, Twilight Cardmistress, Crystal Peak, Eternal She-Wolf, oceanlover4evr, Zarelyn, RandomKrazyPerson, Cindar, Kaylessa, UVNight, Yue Hikari, Alana-kittychan, !A4E!, 1valleygirl4, fourty-eight, Fumus000, blackkyu, gh0st' .Machine,_ and _Master Li_ for their reviews! I love all of you! And I love reading reviews! Huggles for you all!_


	25. fade

In The Silence

~25~

The children are outside in their _yard_ with coats buttoned high and hats pulled low over their ears. The little boy and girl are playing; laughing and scooping up snow into awkward snowballs that fall apart before they're thrown. They're _playing_ over the graves of Jack's _children_, and try though he might he can't quite forget that fact. He'd return to his lake — if he could; let the water wash the memories to far, faint stains in the depths of his mind. But he's trapped, spell-bound to this _yard_ with his children — both the living _and_ the dead.

_He wants to play with them._ Teddy's mittens are full of snow that he's having trouble forming, and Jack wants to help. _Needs_ to help. But ice cannot hear him — will not even acknowledge him — and Jack's hands slide over snow he's unable to touch. He feels like crying but bites down on his lip instead, because playing is _fun_, he reminds himself. _Fun._

"You need to squeeze it harder," he advises, though he knows the boy can't hear him. "Between both palms, like this!" He mimes making a snowball, his gestures exaggerated to comic proportions — and a low chuckle from behind distracts Jack from his demonstration. He whirls, and without thinking chucks his imaginary snowball at Thaddeus.

There's a grin tugging at the corners of the man's mouth, and held-back laughter trembles along the rigid set of his shoulders. "Aye, you're a fierce warrior of winter, child."

"Papa?" Snow falling to the ground in clumps from his red-mittened hands, Teddy pushes through unbroken drifts to his father. "Did you come out to play?"

"No, Teddy. It's time for you and Sarah to head in; supper's on the table and you don't want to keep your mother waiting." He lifts his son out of the knee-deep snow, then places him in the path that's been broken. "Go along now, and take your sister with you."

Jack watches the children return to their cabin, simply watches as he sits on a drift of snow, his staff across his knees. "They could have played longer. There's hours before sunset. —They didn't _need_ to go inside." He pulls his cloak's cape over his head, the only way he knows of hiding from the man's sharp interest; hides behind his makeshift hood and the scant shelter of his arms.

The smile leaves Thaddeus' face, leaving behind fragments of sorrow hidden in the start of frown lines. "Spirit... I see nothing but light in you, when you're playing. Why do I bring you such grief? Is it because I've not kept my word? I promise you, child: I will find a way to free you. Surely there is some clue to be found in the Scripture, some instruction..." He rubs wearily at his face, and goes down upon one knee in front of Jack. "Rachel fears the ice storm has unsettled my mind, but I _see_ you, winter child. I see you crying at our window each night."

He doesn't mean to; he had not known the man could see him, pressed close to the candle-warmed glass as he's wont to do. He doesn't _mean_ to cry as he watches the children sleep, but sometimes the yearning grows too great. _He wants to go home._ He wants the Wind, and the songs of mermaids, and the drowsy murmurs of a moonbeam. He wants an embrace from a man made of smiles. Wants his hand held by the kindest, cruelest woman in the world.

_He's even willing to settle for the skitterings of a rat._

Every day the children come out to the yard to play. And every day, Jack tries to join in. Tries to form snowballs, or to help steady the children's lopsided snowmen. Tries to spread a single feathering of frost along the ground. Tries — until one morning, as the children come rushing out from the cabin with bright, excited faces, he can find no impulse within himself to move. To stand.

_He doesn't want to play._

And though Jack has never been able to interact with the children, hasn't been able to create as much as a single snowflake for them — they seem to miss his participation. Sarah stops first behind her low wall of stacked snow; stops, and stares up into the pale grey sky. "Teddy? I don't want to play anymore. It's — it's cold out."

The little boy, crouched inside his own snow fort, pokes his capped head above the wall and nods. "Yeah. It's not really fun today, is it?"

Together the children stumble back towards the cabin. They stamp their feet free of snow once they reach the door, and Thaddeus ushers them inside. Jack hears them chattering, complaining — but he doesn't care. _What does it matter?_ So they didn't have any fun today...

_It's been so long since he's had fun._

He's curled up on his side atop the previously trampled snow, and he watches indifferently as bulky boots walk towards him. It's Thaddeus come to stare again, he's sure. Stare, and question, and make useless promises he'll never keep. How can he keep them? It's the man's own beliefs imprisoning him. _...A frost child caught in a clearing of snow whom no one can save though he wishes to go..._

"Will you not get up, spirit?" The man's voice is thick with pity, and his gloved hand shakes as he holds it over Jack's head. "Will you not play? Your light is almost gone."

"Thaddeus!" Rachel has come from the cabin and is halfway across the yard; her shawl dangles down her back nearly to her knees and her hands are knotted in the bleached muslin of her apron as her mouth works against bitter words. "Thaddeus, I've told you: There's no one out here! Come back inside; the children worry so, with you constantly out here addled, talking to shadows and snow."

"Mama!" Left unattended, little Sarah has followed her mother out into the snow. There's a flush along her cheeks, and wisps of hair have escaped her braids, but her smile is joy itself. "Have you come out to play? I'll share my fort with you."

Rachel gazes a long moment at her husband before her features soften in something that isn't quite understanding but is no longer condescending. "Please, Thaddeus. You need to let him go. We all miss him. God knows there's not a single minute that goes by that I don't miss him — but he wouldn't want this for you. You know that."

Jack has no interest in what they're discussing. There's _nothing_ that interests him. Only — there's a nearly non-existent pull on his _self_, a ghost-touch that courses along the backs of his arms and he pushes himself off the ground to get away from the sensation. Thaddeus is no longer _watching_, his attention taken by his wife. The man is not watching — but Jack is. watching.

_There's smoke coming from the cabin._

Something is terribly wrong. Smoke should only be rising from the chimney, not trickling from the door. And the pull Jack's feeling increases; tightens; his child is _calling_ and he runs to answer. Runs to the door — but not beyond, for there's a feeling akin to summer past the threshold, and summer is no place for a frost child. He spares a single breath to peer inside, and is dazzled by the light of a hundred candles. A thousand candles. All the cabin dances with flame. And his boy is within.

"Rachel, I _know_ he's gone. I've accepted that. Just — believe me when I tell you, there's a child—"

"There is no child, Thaddeus!"

He doesn't know what to do. His child is calling, but it's summer inside the cabin. If he wasn't bound, his shadow could easily overcome such a small piece of mislaid season. _If his staff wasn't dry, dead wood, frost alone could put out the flames._ His staff, though, _is dead_ and his shadow is _lost_ — and he doesn't know what to _do_. He does know, though, that Thaddeus is a _parent_, and that parents take care of children — and if he can gain the man's attention, then _Thaddeus_ can go to his son and put the frenzied piece of summer in its place.

"Thaddeus!" Jack calls, hurrying across the yard to where the man is arguing with his wife. "Please! Look!" He jumps between the two; stares up at the astonished man — and points towards the cabin. "_Look!_"

"...What? Spirit, what—" Following the line of Jack's flung arm, Thaddeus turns his head, and _sees_. "My God! Teddy!" The man rushes towards the cabin as his wife gives a piercing cry behind him. "Teddy!" The doorway, though, stops the man as easily as it had blocked Jack. Heat radiates from the opening — and they both lean past the threshold, trying to spot the boy inside. "Teddy!"

"Papa?" The little boy's voice quivers as hope struggles through fear. It's by his coughing that Jack finally locates him, against the far back wall of the cabin behind a billowing curtain of flame. "I'm here, Papa!"

It's as Thaddeus' face twists with some dreadful knowledge that Jack realizes _the man cannot get to his son._ Children are snowflakes, and while they might grow up — might become adults — they are still snowflakes, and no snowflake can survive a fire. No snowflake lasts till summer.

_He_ might, though. He's seen summer, once before. And while he can't pick up the boy; can't pull him to safety; can't _touch_ him — he can surround him. Surround the child in cold enough to make it through the flame, _perhaps_. If he can find the courage. He doesn't know if it will hurt — but he thinks it might. _But could it hurt any worse, than sticking his hand in the heart of a star?_ He'll find out.

"Spirit, what—" Thaddeus begins to ask, his hand coming down as if to grab his shoulder, but Jack is quicker. While he may have been kept from the Wind, he remembers how to move as if they were still together. The _heat_ inside the cabin momentarily stuns him; shocks him into taking a deep breath — and Jack _knows_ that he shan't be doing that again any time soon. Breathing is for playing in winter, _not_ for attempting the stronghold of summer.

Passing by the greedy, licking flames is — different. There is no pain; there's no great _hurt_ as far as he can tell, only a general weakening, a sudden apathy that has him wanting to curl up on the floor and sleep. Which he'll do later, he promises himself, forcing his eyes back open. He'll sleep once his child is safely outside.

Surrounding the boy _does_ hurt — but then it _always_ hurts when a child walks through him. Staying around the boy sets his teeth on edge as instinct urges him to _move away_ from the source of the pain. And Jack hopes the child will realize that something has changed, that the fire _cannot touch him_ and will begin moving soon, _please_ because he doesn't know how much longer he can _stay_ wrapped around him...

Teddy gasps. Breathes deep of cold, fresh air, and _runs_ towards the door through smoke and flame — and Jack runs with him, always _always_ keeping the child _inside_, until they're both out the doorway to the welcoming chill of winter beyond. Teddy runs straight into his father's arms, choking and sobbing — and Jack collapses to the snow. He's _so_ very tired. So very, _very_...

Rachel has grabbed up her son; is pressing kisses to his smoke-streaked face while Sarah clings to her mother's skirts with the sparkle of tears on her cheeks but a smile on her lips. And Thaddeus is in the snow beside him, the man's eyes wet as relief wars with horror.

"You saved him, spirit. I saw. I saw what you did. You saved my boy — and now you're almost gone." Horror is gaining ground, a deep dismay laced with shame. "I... I've _done_ this somehow. Some..." He blinks, and tears spill. "God help me, but Rachel is right. Not about Phillip — but I couldn't let _go_. I couldn't..."

Thaddeus reaches out, and Jack can _almost_ feel his touch.

"_Be __**free**_, spirit. Lord forgive me — **be free!**"

Jack can _hear_ Snowflake's heartbroken begging. Can _feel_ the snow beneath him and the ice pulsing within his staff. The spell of belief has been broken, shattered by another, _stronger_ belief. And he's still so tired — so incredibly _weary_ and he'd like to sleep, if no one minded...

The Wind doesn't mind if its frost child sleeps, it assures him as it briskly sweeps him into its embrace and carries him to the clouds high above. He can sleep as long as he wants, now that they're reunited. And the force of the Wind as it blows through the clearing snuffs the fire out.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Erm, yay? And next part is pure fluff. Quite a few people questioned why Jack has not tried some alternate means of communication with Thaddeus, such as the writing of notes. O.O;; If the spell allowed Jack any sort of interaction with the environment around him (which it doesn't) that still kinda ignores the fact that Jack does not know how to read or write, because there's been no one to teach him. Don't worry too much, though. That changes after part 30._

_Beta done by _Kaylessa_, whom I rather sabotaged ^^;; and in return offer sincere apologies, and blame the flu that made Esse even more of an airhead than she usually is._

_Many thanks to _hisokauzumaki, Twilight Cardmistress, Kaylessa, ThatOneFan, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, !A4E!, RandomKrazyPerson, whylime, Yue Hikari, Alaia Skyhawk, Eternal She-Wolf, Clio Ying, DoomCabbit, Bookworm Gal, blackkyu, 1valleygirl4, Crystal Peak, Alana-kittychan, oceanlover4evr, fourty-eight, gh0st' .Machine,_ and _UVNight_ for their reviews and well wishes! I'm feeling better today! Still going through tissues like crazy — but it gives me very good reason to stay away from crazy family Christmas Eve gatherings, yes?_

_Wishing you all a fun and safe Christmas Eve!_

_**excerpt from the pages of Mr. Qwerty**_

There were few differences between wizards and men, but far more similarities between wizards and children. For while wizards grew old, they never quite managed the knack of growing up. A wizard's belief, however, was a powerful thing indeed; for while children grew up and lost their first spell, a wizard never did. And a wizard's belief only got stronger with time.

Wizards, though, much like men — and much like every other being in the universe — did know love, and not all the belief in the world could break the spell of a simple, loving smile. And so wizard blood was spread around the world, in sons and daughters, grandchildren and great grandchildren, so that by the time Atlantis fell — while Ombric Shalazar was one of the last great wizards left — he was hardly the only one with the gift of belief.

He was, however, the only trained wizard left in the world.

Centuries upon centuries passed, and wizard blood thinned, and occasionally strengthened. So it came to pass that on a cold January night a baby boy was born to Oliver and Hannah Burgess; a baby boy christened Thaddeus to whom belief came as easily as breathing. And Thaddeus saw things that his age-mates did not: gold streamers in the sky at night, a lovely face in the morning mist, the glaring eyes of a rat peering from thick shadows. In time, though, he taught himself not to see such things, for they were the whimsies of childhood — and Thaddeus was now a man grown.

He had a wife he adored and three fine, strong children. He also had a dream such as most men secretly nurtured, of land of his own where his family could live to the fullness of their days, generation upon generation. So possessions were packed into the back of a wagon and Thaddeus led his family into ancient forest.

His eldest son, however, soon became sick — and recognizing the illness, Thaddeus made a grave mistake; the greatest mistake one of wizarding blood could make. Thaddeus _knew_ there was no cure, and by believing this — there was none. Phillip was lost, and Thaddeus also knew that he was entirely to blame.

The loss of his son unseated Thaddeus' mind, and childhood memories of rats in corners and a woman in the rustling leaves of trees came to the fore. He wanted to know his son was safe. He wanted proof of an afterlife. And so he prayed, pouring all his belief into the start of a spell.

But Thaddeus was untrained.

The family arrived in a wide, gentle valley and came upon a clearing; a perfect, level clearing — and there Thaddeus built a cabin from the trunks of nearby pines. Hunting was plentiful, and the family thought it was well prepared for the upcoming winter. Winter, though, came early in the form of an unexpected blizzard. _Winter_ came close to destroying the small family with subzero temperatures and gale force winds.

The cabin creaked as the wind strove to tear it apart, and Thaddeus swore to his wife that he could hear the agonized cries of a child within the blizzard's wail. Rachel heard nothing, but as the storm continued unabated Thaddeus became convinced that he had somehow offended winter — and that amends needed to be made. During a lull in the storm Thaddeus walked outside — and prayed.

He asked for winter to show his children its smiling face — but it was _Thaddeus_ that most wanted to see some sign, some proof, some spirit from the world beyond that would reassure him of Phillip's well-being. And the spell of an untrained wizardling, a mismatched incomplete spell, was set into motion.

There was a child by the cabin's door, a child made of moonlight reflected off snow and covered in the tattered remnants of a cloak. And while Thaddeus questioned — he knew. _He knew._ Heaven had sent him a messenger. Heaven had sent him a second chance. For the spirit was grieving; that was clear.

The winter spirit played with his children during the day, and sat at his window and wept every night. And Thaddeus came to understand that the child was trapped in the clearing. But though he continued to question, he could not hear the child's replies. Though he knew the spirit was doing its best to answer him, light obscured the details of the child's form, and so the guessing game continued.

Thaddeus never gave up hope. His belief only continued to strengthen. He could help the poor, lost child. He could _save_ the winter spirit. It was his second chance — and nothing would stand in his way. He believed with all his great heart — until, in the dazzle cast by his burning cabin, he finally understood. The only thing the child needed saving from... was Thaddeus himself.


	26. play

In The Silence

~26~

Jack's sleep is oddly disjointed; at times he doesn't think he's sleeping at all, and there are moments he is positive must be dreams, but when he thinks back — when he _thinks_ he thinks back — he's not sure which memories belong to waking, and which belong to sleep. All is swirling haze, both behind closed eyelids and when he stares incuriously around him. And it worries him, in a vague, tremulous way, but the Wind is there, always there, wrapped around and above and beneath him — and the Wind cradles him as it sighs reassurance against his skin.

Jack sleeps within a cloud, a chilled, thick cloud of ice crystals; a cloud large enough to turn the sun's light a dim, pearl-streaked grey. He's been swallowed by his shadow is his groggy thought, but he feels no alarm — for it's _his_ shadow and he'd almost given up hope of ever seeing it again. There's a comfort to be had, floating in his shadow; what once had been a grim presence is now a confidant. And he whispers to his shadow, to the Wind, to his Snowflake moonbeam both his dreams and his wavering thoughts — for he's not sure, _just not sure_ if he's sleeping, or if he's awake. He cannot tell, but it doesn't bother him. Much.

"Do you think Teddy's well?" he asks upon a breath of icy mist. "I think he's well," he answers himself — although it might have been Snowflake. It might have been the Wind. It's too much of a struggle, keeping track of voices — but he _wants_ them to speak, even if he's unsure which friend is which. _He's gone too long unheard._

"Thaddeus will take care of him."

_'He is a good man, Jack boy. He made a mistake, but he's ever so sorry. As are you. You're sorry for the blizzard, aren't you, frost child?'_

"I only wanted them to leave. It wasn't right. Wind agreed; it wasn't right, disturbing the clearing. My children have so little now — shouldn't they have their clearing? But I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten angry. ...Should I have? Snowflake, children get angry. Children _fight_. I've seen them. I'm a child... Why shouldn't I be angry?"

The moonbeam stays silent for a long, grey while, and Jack turns restlessly on his bed of cloud and wind. There's a soreness that lingers in his skin, a hint of summer that refuses to fade — and Jack's not sure if he's awake or dreaming when Snowflake replies. _'Children fight, that is true. But it's a terrible, wicked truth. It's a truth a shadow would tell. What happens when children fight, Jack boy?'_

"They bleed." The idea bothers him, and he loosens and tightens his grip on his staff in agitation before twisting around it, savoring the chill emanating from the wood. "They turn the snow _red_ and _sticky_."

_'And you, child? Do you want to _make_ them bleed?'_

"No!" His breath catches in his throat, and he presses the palm of his hand hard against the golden pendant; hard against his heart. "No..." His denial is a moan, and he stares up into the swirling grey as tears gather in the corners of his eyes. "I should never have gotten angry."

_'Perhaps. Perhaps not. Anger in itself isn't good, but neither is it bad. It just is. A frost child, though — is a power, indeed. You need not fret so, though. The man blames you not — and we love you, Jack boy. You are loved.'_

He is _loved_ by a moonbeam, frost child of the Wind with a shadow of storm, and while nothing _hurts_ that he's aware of, discomfort follows him out of dreams into waking and back again, and it seems as if he'll never lose the touch of summer along his limbs. _He wants to go home_ but the thought of laying upon sand _no matter how soft_ fills him with a feeling akin to fear — but not quite. _He wants a hug of _gold_ and _safe_ but he unknowingly cries out in his dreams at the suggestion of _warm_._

Jack sleeps and dreams, and wakes and _still_ dreams, for a boy has joined him in his cloud, a boy of light and swiftness. A boy with a staff formed from a broken branch with a brightly glowing moonbeam inside the diamond dagger tip. A boy who is smiling down at him, and laughing a laugh of mist and light. A boy who wants to play.

Jack doesn't want to play, and the boy's laughter is a burden. Turning, he burrows deeper into cloud, and eventually — he thinks, eventually — the boy leaves. Unless he's still sleeping, in which case the boy was never there.

"I had the strangest dream, Snowflake," he says sometime later, stretching languorously and listening with fascination as ice crackles from his joints. "I dreamt there was a boy of light up here in the cloud. —He wanted to play."

_'He still does, Jack boy,'_ the moonbeam snickers, gleaming from where it has escaped the protection of his cloak. _'Every night he comes. We should play, frost child. Let's play!'_

He sits and stretches again; hooks a wisp of mist streaming overhead with the crook of his staff and pulls himself to his feet. Sure enough the boy of light is there at the edge of his shadow, peering in with intense curiosity. And when he spots Jack he laughs his laugh of light — and this time Jack returns it, along with a flurry of snow.

They play a game of chase from cloud to cloud under the glowing bright face of the moon. Moonbeams gather around them, a great chattering crowd of curious beams that flock and swirl and cheer. And Jack's not sure if he's the one chasing, or the one being chased; isn't sure if he's flying towards the sky or falling towards the ground as he travels through his snow-heavy shadow; isn't sure if he's dreaming, or if he's awake as he breaks through the surface of the cloud to the star-scattered night beyond.

As fast as Jack is, the boy of light is faster, so with a wicked grin Jack calls snow to his fingers and forms a hard packed ball. "Gotcha!" he crows as his aim proves true and snow runs in rivulets down the other boy's face. He then sees his grin returned — a grin brimming with promise and a delight as sharp-edged as his own — and Jack whoops as he ducks back into his shadow.

In the end Jack doesn't think he's won the game, but he's equally certain that he hasn't _lost_ as they sit side by side on the moonlit surface of his shadow. "Now _that_ was fun," he says, twirling his staff in an arc that sends moonbeams spinning happily through the air.

_It was,_ the boy of light admits, his own staff resting across his shoulders. _I've never found anyone else that can play on the clouds. And you're neither Small, nor Tall. What are you?_

"Frost child." Sticking his staff point first into cloud, Jack wraps his legs around the crook and swings upside-down. "And you?"

_Astral child._ Tilting his head, the boy of light reaches out and lightly taps the exposed pendant swaying from its braided chain of woven grass. _Hello._

Snowflake is startled, Jack can tell, and that startlement lands him in a heap at the base of his staff. With the start of a scowl he quickly shoves Snowflake back under his shirt — for the lady had told him to keep his friend _safe_ — and he'd forgotten.

_It's okay._ The boy grins again, but this time there's no mischief in it. _We met, oh, a long, long time ago. It's always good, to see old friends._ His staff still resting over his shoulder, the astral child stands, then ruffles Jack hair enthusiastically. _We should play again soon, frost child. Little Brother._

Before Jack can tackle him the other boy is gone, gone in a hundred shafts of light that shoot across the starry night.

"...What did he mean?" Jack asks his Snowflake moonbeam, once more hidden safely in its place above his heart. "Snowflake?"

But for once the moonbeam has no answer to give.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Nightlight! Yay! lol! Okay, _Nicholas St. North_ p.107-108: '_He thought of people almost as simply. There were Small Ones (children) - they were good. And fun! They were playful and wild, like himself. As for the Tall Ones (grown-ups), his feelings were more complicated. Some were good and some were definitely bad._' And Jack is neither Small, nor Tall -giggle snort-_

_Many Christmasy thanks to _Twilight Cardmistress, Alaia Skyhawk, whylime, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, fourty-eight, Clio Ying, ThatOneFan, oceanlover4evr, RandomKrazyPerson, Crystal Peak, 1valleygirl4, Alana-kittychan, blackkyu, mjbaerman, UVNight, Fumus000, , Bookworm Gal _and _AutumnoColorum_ for their reviews! Thank you so much! I hope you're having a lovely Christmas (or other seasonal holiday of your choice). Although, since we're all _RotG_ fans... it's prolly fine to wish all a Ho Ho Hoppy Christmas as Long as You Floss Sweet Frosty Dreams Day!_

_Tomorrow, when you try to return all those unwanted sweaters and socks? Yeah, that's Pitch wishing you a happy holiday lol! GLOMPS!_


	27. stone

In The Silence

~27~

Jack is perched upon his shadow, staring down at the patchwork quilt of earth. Stray moonbeams still dance around him, ducking within the folds of his cloak and ambling along the edge of his staff, setting normally dark surfaces aglow. He's not sure why they've stayed behind; he's fairly certain they'd come with the astral child — but he thinks, perhaps, the boy of light is still involved in a game of chase. And Jack smiles at the idea of a child faster than moonbeams.

He wants to go home. He wants his room in the Dreamsand castle. He wants to sit at Sandman's feet on his cloud of wisps and dreams... only... _There is a pull._ As much as he wants to go home, every time he longingly gazes in the direction of the island of Sleepy Sands something pulls at his _self_. And while the tug isn't painful — is almost wistful as it seeks his attention — he does find it upsetting. As if, somehow, someone has reset the compass of his heart, and _home_ is no longer where it should be.

With a sigh he stands and jumps from his shadow into the Wind's eager arms. "I don't know," he tells his friend when the Wind inquires as to their direction. "—I don't know where home is, anymore."

Summer stalks the north and so they head south — which increases the pull, but there's little Jack can do against a season not his own. He revisits villages and towns; reacquaints himself with children grown older and with children newly arrived. And while he helps with the building of whimsical snow creatures, and assists the youngest form their first balls of snow — his actions lack a certain exuberance _and he plays not a single trick._

Tricks have lost their appeal. Tricks — seem too close to anger.

He plays, but his laughter is softer with strange, pensive echoes. He plays, but never for as long as he used to _before_. And he'll sit for long hours in the night — but no longer pressed close to windows — and focus on the ache within that yearns for a home that's not _his_. He knows, now, the direction of the pull. He has an idea where the tether leads. What he doesn't know is if he deserves it — or not.

Thaddeus had forgiven him. The man had set him free... But not as free as he'd once been. Teddy is _calling_, wishing for snow — and Jack's happy, he truly is, knowing the boy is well and _safe_ — but it's not Teddy with the power to bind him. It's not Teddy's beliefs he fears. Teddy is calling, but _Thaddeus_ wants to _see_ him.

And as the months pass, as northern summer fades to fall, Jack can no longer ignore the summons.

They sneak through the eastern mountains, the Wind and him, so different from their entrance the year before. His shadow hides behind the highest peaks, only occasionally lifting its stormcloud head to peak at the valley below. He stops at his lake and examines a length of rope tied tightly around a pine branch overhanging the water. The rope holds the memories of young hands gripping it, and of the laughter accompanying the splash of water when young hands let go.

He bypasses his village, _his poor, forgotten village_, and makes his way to the clearing instead. The cabin, though, is gone. In its place is a scattering of strange monuments, most of wood but one of solid stone covered in odd, curving marks. Jack's seen its like in other towns — seen entire fields of them outside of larger cities. He thinks that — as artwork — they lack appeal, so he taps the slab of granite with his staff, covering it in a fine spray of frost flowers.

"Wind?" he asks with a hint of confusion. "Where did they go?" The Wind doesn't know, but doesn't mind looking. For Jack, it will happily search the world. Together they rise above the treetops, hoping to spot the golden gleam of a candlelit window or to see the golden glow of children sleeping in their beds; some sign, any sign of the family that had lived there. But it's not one window they spot — but four.

There are two cabins built not far from the river; a distance from the ruins of his village. Two cabins of fresh cut logs — and while Jack would like to peer in all the smooth-glass windows, only one beckons. Only one _pulls_ with firm insistence. He frowns, but there's no use fighting the summons. And he's _more anxious _than curious; he _wants_ to see his boy, and the little girl who'd been so close to being _his_ as well.

"Thaddeus," he says as he places his palm against the window, coating the glass in a frost pattern of flickering flames. Jack can see the man, sitting at a table inside — but he's unable to draw his attention. The Wind, impatient, rattles the shutters once, then again with more force — and Thaddeus finally lifts his head — and _sees_. Sees, and smiles with all the joy and innocence of a child witnessing their first snowfall.

"Spirit!" Thaddeus calls, then ducks his head as Rachel gives him a searching glance. "That is, I do believe it's going to be a colder night than we were expecting. I should bring in more wood." He stands and pulls on his coat; wraps a thick scarf around his neck and covers his hands in fleece-lined gloves. "—I might have to split a log or three; don't fret, it may take some time—"

There's a sad, discerning wrinkle across Rachel's forehead, but she lets her husband dash from the cabin without protest.

"Child!" The man comes to a stop before Jack, his breath clouding white in the cold, crisp air. "We — we should move away from the window; no point in worrying Rachel further... My God!" He leans against the woodpile stacked beside the cabin — and the Moon could be no brighter than his grin. "You'd worried me so, the way you disappeared after the fire. I feared..." The grin falters in the presence of memories, then strengthens. "Well, never mind what I feared. You're back!"

"Of course I'm back," Jack answers blithely, aware that the man cannot hear him. Petulantly he pokes the woodpile with his staff, covering it in a thin, slick layer of ice. "It's not as if you've left me much choice." He swings his staff across his shoulders and paces in front of the man. "I _wanted_ to go home. I wanted..." He lowers his staff to the ground with a swing that leaves him sitting on the crook, face to face with the other. "What do you _want_ from me?"

Thaddeus runs his gloved hands along the iced-over logs, and sighs as his grin slips into solemnity. "I know you're angry, spirit." _Angry? Maybe once, but not now._ "I know — what wrong I've done you. I swear to you, I had no idea. Not until after the fire, and Rachel wanted me to dig a basement for the new cabin."

Frost stops its advance, and Jack's toes curl tightly about the hook of his staff — because there's something ominous about the word _dig_. Dig goes with _dirt_ and _holes in the ground_ and other, less understood concepts. _Dig_ goes with _buried_ — and the Wind begins a mournful howl.

"As soon as I knew, I tore down what remained of the cabin. And I put up a stone for you, spirit; for you, and the others. So everyone will know. Your folk won't be forgotten, child. I promise you: You won't be forgotten."

The sound of newly falling snow is loud in the Wind's sudden silence. And the snow comes down as large, light flakes that cling playfully to the man's dark hair. "You — you put up the rock to remember? So my children will never be forgotten?" Jack leaps from his staff and pulls it from the ground; is halfway towards the forest before he realizes Thaddeus is not following. "Come on!" he shouts, flying back to the man and hovering impatiently in front of him; flings his arm imploringly towards the forest then tugs at the end of the man's scarf. "I want to see it again, now that I know. I want to see this stone that remembers."

"You want me to show you?" Thaddeus guesses, then laughs weakly at Jack's vehement nod. "Very well, child. Let's go. Let's go to see your marker."

They walk through the forest and up to the clearing, and Thaddeus stops short when he notices the frost covering the single stone. "Ah, so you came here first. Understandable." Sadness lingers on a mouth that's attempting to smile once more. "Does it meet with your approval?"

Jack shrugs, squatting and running his fingers along the chiseled curves of the rock's surface. For a stone that's supposed to remember, it tells him nothing. "I don't understand. How does this tell my children's story?" For he knows that stories come from books, and that somehow the studying of books help adults tell their listeners of far away places, and far away times — and a chunk of rock is scarcely a _book_.

Crouching as well, Thaddeus lays his hand against the ice coating the stone and clears his throat. "I sent inquiries, but no one knew the name of the old settlement; no one knew there was one. There aren't any records, either; not of births, not of... deaths." He blinks hastily, and rubs his thumb against the highest mark. "I — I'm not a poet, but I thought this might be fitting...

_"Laughter on a winter's day_

_Children in the snow will play_

_Though their stay with us is done_

_In winter's snow their joy lives on"_

"Mermaid song!" He claps with delight and traces the strange curves on the rock with a fingertip, leaving behind a scattering of frost minnows. "That's perfect! Now everyone will know that my children are still playing!" Jack's not sure how Thaddeus communicates with the stone — but the story is _mostly_ correct, and he thinks that, just maybe, the story is _better_ than truth. "Please, Thaddeus. Again."

The man watches him with concern, then smiles with relief when he understands what Jack is waiting for. "You want me to read it again?"

"Yes!"

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Oh, you poor, silly boy! That's your tombstone, Jack!_

_Beta provided by _Kaylessa_ — and Esse will, one day, follow all suggestions properly ^^;; She can be taught! It just takes time, patience — and coffee lol!_

_Many heartfelt, snuggle-warm thanks to _oceanlover4evr, mjbaerman, btBatt, Bookworm Gal, Alaia Skyhawk, Yue Hikari, 1valleygirl4, Crystal Peak, Twilight Cardmistress, Cindar, Clio Ying, hisokauzumaki, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, !A4E!, Alana-kittychan, DragonsFlame117, blackkyu, RandomKrazyPerson, Crysania Fay, eternal she-wolf, whylime, Master Li, Kage_ and _Anne Camp_ for their reviews! You guys rock taking the time to review on Christmas! Thank you, and I hope your holidays were grand!_

whylime:_ You present a very good question, and I'll answer it here in case others were wondering ^_^ Personally, I think Jack and Nightlight have a lot in common. They're neither children nor adults — but they are mature for what they are. As for Jack's physical age at death, I'm going with the generally accepted 16-18 (although I lean closer to younger than older, since the older age starts bringing up questions of why he was still at home _playing_)._

_Drawing upon the 'vast' -gigglesnort- background provided by the books (yes, that was a touch sarcastic), meteors and shooting stars are filled with an astral brightness, the only thing that can harm a shadow. Nightlight is constantly referred to as an astral boy. Insert my own (likely erroneous) assumption that Nightlight is, in fact, a star child. (Although the one idea that he's made out of glow-sticks and rubber bands had me larfing to within an inch of falling off my chair!)_

_Okay, in _Silence_ (and nowhere else!) Jack's brought back by the Star Pendant. He's brought back by the _stars_. Thus making him a star child as well. Jack doesn't know this — but Nightlight picked up on it ^_~ And Nightlight is thrilled that there's finally someone like him in the universe (since Pitch snuffed out almost all the other stars — that must have in someway been different than the stars _we_ see in the sky at night)._

_And now that I think I've covered about everything except the question that was asked ^^;; I'll say, tongue-in-cheek (and please take it with a grain of salt and a large dollop of doubt) that Jack will, in about a billion years, grow up to be a very nice star ^o^_

Anne Camp:_ For the _Silence_ timeline the books started somewhere between 1705-1710, and Jack fell into the lake sometime around 1711-1712. So the moonbeam had already freed Nightlight from Pitch's heart before Jack was changed. When MN and Jack go to the _Nightmare Galleon_, Nature was hoping her father was off somewhere else doing vile deeds — but instead he'd gone back to the _Galleon_ to sulk over his latest defeat. (This also means that their trip to the _Galleon_ takes place after book 3, so I'm assuming some sort of peace was worked out between MN and Pitch.)_


	28. room

In The Silence

~28~

Thaddeus is quiet as they walk back towards the cabins. Jack doesn't mind; it's been several years since he last visited these trees, and he greets each old friend with a tap of his staff or a pat of his hand, leaving behind delicate whorls of frost. He feels — light. As if he could rise as high as the Moon without the Wind's help. He feels — free, and he realizes that the nagging pull on his _self_ is gone. He can leave... if he wants to. But he doesn't feel like leaving, not quite yet.

"How's Teddy? Did — did the flames hurt him? And Sarah? Is she well? Will Rachel be upset, that you showed me the singing stone?" Jack blinks before grinning widely, jumping in front of the man without warning. "You told her you were chopping wood! You _lied_! You lied, but no one's hurt!" It's an amazing discovery, that a lie need not cause damage; it's a _trick_ the man's just taught him, and Jack cartwheels in the air, unable to stay still. "Oh, what will Rachel _do_ if you go back in without wood?"

Grinning at his antics, Thaddeus pauses before briskly rubbing his arms together. "Child, you've no idea how good it is to see you happy. Though I haven't a clue what a spirit would find joyous; you were scarcely pleased with my company last year..." His grin wavers, and his arms stay wrapped around his chest. "For which I'm sorry. Terribly sorry, child. I — I don't know _how_ I kept you there; I only know that, somehow — I did. I wanted, so _much_, to know... And then, after you pulled Teddy from the fire, I was _sure_ you..." His voice is thick with withheld tears, and he coughs against them. "To _know_ I killed one of Heaven's messengers—"

"Killed?" Jack doesn't know the word, but he doesn't need to know it to _dislike_ it, for it sounds like the scrabbling claws of rats. And Thaddeus looks _dreadful_ now that he's said it, hunched shouldered and shaking. There's one obvious solution to the miserable expression on the man's face: Jack _hides_ it behind a handful of flung snow.

The man splutters before using the ends of his scarf to wipe his face clear. "You threw a snowball at me!" He laughs, loud and long even as snowmelt makes it way down his collar. "Been wanting to do that since last winter, haven't you?"

Nodding, Jack forms another, larger ball and chases Thaddeus down the trail with it, flying over tree roots that the man isn't as successful in avoiding. "Ha! Think you can get away that easily!" He tosses the ball, and cheers when the man stumbles — but continues to laugh. "_That's_ better!"

Thaddeus is back in front of the cabins covered head to foot in snow, and his laughter is interspersed with gasps. "You've a wicked arm on you, child. I'm not sure if you've forgiven me, or if this is a winter spirit's concept of punishment."

Rolling his eyes, Jack swings his staff in an arc that leaves behind a trail of snowflakes. "It's **fun**. Adults are _odd_." Jumping to the window sill, Jack peers inside to where Rachel is seated, busy with her knitting. "Sarah and Teddy are in bed, but Rachel's still up. You really should get some wood; she doesn't look very happy—"

"Spirit." The man's voice is hardly above a whisper, but Jack thinks he understands. With the way Rachel's mouth twists as though chewing on something bitter, _he_ wouldn't want to draw her attention, either. "If you'll come around to the back, I think I can offer a better option than our window for the night."

Option? There's something _implied_ in Thaddeus' statement, as if... as if there were something wrong with looking through windows. Which Jack is _sure_ isn't the case; staring inside homes that he'll never be welcomed in is what a frost child _does_ — and how else would he occupy his time while children slept? He supposes he could go to his lake; there's _always_ his lake, now that he's free. Or the rooftops. Or he could have the Wind take him up into the clouds, and he could seek out the astral boy for another game of chase...

"This way," Thaddeus urges, and having nothing better to do _since the man apparently did not approve of him looking through his windows, and Jack still feels wary around this man of _beliefs_ that could bind_ he follows him around the side of the cabin to a darkened doorway. "We put up the lean-to for my brother-in-law, while we built the second cabin. I — I did not know if you were ever coming back, but I'd hoped..."

"Prayed, is more like it," Jack says with a hint of sharpness, for the pull hadn't been _comfortable_ in the least. Moonlight pours into the small room from the empty doorway, and he ducks his head inside in an attempt to figure out whatever has the man fretting. There's not much within; a small bed is tucked in the corner with a rough wooden table beside it, but there's a worn quilt over the straw tick and the quilt's once-bright colors tempt him a step closer.

"You could stay here, if you've a mind." Sitting on the bed the man sighs as if he'd been standing for far too long. "I took off the door since I doubt the cold would be a bother to you, child — and I didn't want you to feel trapped..." He sighs again as his hand strokes the faded fabric underneath him. "Rachel humors me. Thinks I'm doing this for Phillip. I — I'm not _mad_, spirit. I know there's no returning for my son. I would not be able to _stand_ it, thinking that he might be like... _you_."

"There's nothing wrong with me." The Wind agrees, sneaking inside the lean-to to explore darkened crevices, and Jack lets the Wind lift him off his feet. "I wish you'd make sense."

"Anyway, the room is here for you, if you should want it. Or need it. Do spirits rest, I wonder?" There's a look of profound thought on Thaddeus' face as he stands; complex, disturbed thought. "I'm sure I saw you sleeping, pressed against the window, but last year was hardly usual for you, was it? I just wanted you to know, you're welcome here, child. Come or go as you please — but I very much enjoy — your company..."

Jack watches the man walk out the doorway; follows him around the corner of the cabin and shouts, "Don't forget the wood!" which the man can't hear, but he stops at the woodpile regardless and picks up several good-sized pieces. Jack watches the man enter the cabin, and _listens_ to the strained conversation between Thaddeus and his wife — but it makes little sense to him and is actually rather boring, so he returns to the lean-to with its small bed and small table and carefully mended quilt.

"Adults are _odd_," he tells the Wind, and the Wind agrees as it flutters the edges of the quilt. He doesn't _need_ a room besides his room in the Dreamsand castle, where every golden grain of sand contains a precious dream. He doesn't _need_ a bed, and the straw tick is nowhere near as soft as sand against his skin. He most certainly doesn't need a _quilt_... Although, now that he _has_ one, he can't help but admire the patterns on the fabric; can't help gently stroking his fingers down the neatly stitched seams.

It's a strange sensation, being _inside_ a house — and yet _not_. He's been invited inside, and yet not _truly_ inside, for there's no lamplight or firelight, only moonlight falling in a rectangle against the floor. And while he can _feel_ the children sleeping, he cannot _see_ their golden dreams — and it unsettles him. _Worries_ him, for Thaddeus had never said if Teddy was alright.

Jack needs to see for himself. So he leaves the lean-to and settles down against the window, wiping away the spreading frost so he can see inside. And a tension that he'd long grown used to _eases_ as he watches the children dreaming. And a smile spreads across his face as he leaves the window and follows the streamers of sand to their source, for Sandman is above him on his golden cloud — and there's _so much_ he wants to tell him.

Tomorrow, though, he'll return. Tomorrow he'll play with Teddy and Sarah; _tomorrow_ he'll show them what a frost child can do! Tomorrow, he'll thank Thaddeus for the quilt — for it's obvious that someone has taken good care of it; poured love and warmth and tenderness into each and every stitch. Tomorrow — will come soon enough.

_Tonight he's going home._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Okay, I really wanted to see the conversation where Thaddeus tells Rachel he's adopting a ghost. That isn't his son. But is obviously in need of a good home — and a warm quilt lol! I really am having too much fun with Thaddeus. Thank goodness for canon characters that were given absolutely no personality or much in the way of history in the movie._

_Beta done by _Kaylessa_! Yay!_

_Many exuberant thanks to _myrddin767, Anne Camp, Bookworm Gal, lurkerlaine, 1valleygirl4, whylime, Fumus000, Alaia Skyhawk, Clio Ying, FrostFan, Crystal Peak, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, SOulWindWALKER, DragonsFlame117, Alana-kittychan, RandomKrazyPerson, fourty-eight, hisokauzumaki, mjbaerman, blackkyu, ForeverWillEnd, the bushy haired know-it-all, Kaylessa, Dragowolf, !A4E! _and _Master Li_ for their reviews! They fill me with happiness, the motivation to write on — and an odd craving for toast._

FrostFan:_ Well, he already knows Sandy ^_^ And Aster. He'll meet Bunny (the young, un-improved Aster) in a bit — and he'll lob snowballs at North's head because, umm... North needs snowballs lobbed at his head. Yes. -nods- He will not meet Tooth before the movie takes place, because that's movie canon._

hisokauzumaki:_ GLOMP! You were review 500! Is there a drabble you'd like to request?_

_~and... I woke up this morning to Grumpy!Jack. Really. He was sitting there by my cocoa mug, and he wouldn't let me near the microwave until I wrote the next part of his AU. So, all hail Grumpy!Jack (who was a bit miffed that he barely got a cameo in this part — but then he was all teary-eyed and booboo and had to go find Aster for manly huggles because, erm, yeah...)_

~o~

Ombric watched the young man bent over the work table, chisel in one hand and arcane magic flickering about the fingers of the other. He watched as toys were crafted; strange, flickering toys without true form, made more from potential than any earthly material. Nicholas had spent days in the Lamadary's workshop on this project. Whenever the young man grew overly tired from practicing with the mysterious sword gifted him by Tsar Lunar he would return to this project — and it seemed that his diligence was being rewarded.

Nicholas set the chisel aside and lifted up one of the beautiful, shifting forms; a blending of metal and magic vaguely reminiscent of the djinni, and yet — not. Held within the young man's hand, the form twisted from hoop to doll to curious, multi-pronged tool before returning to its original, nearly formless state. "What do you think, Ombric? Will the children like them?"

"I should say so," the wizard said, picking one up for himself. A smile spread across his bearded face as the toy morphed into a tangled, sparkling maze he remembered playing with an eternity ago on Atlantis. "And you've made one for each of them? Even the Williams? I must admit — I occasionally miscount them. Oh, Tall William and William the Absolute Youngest are easy enough to remember, but I tend to forget how many Williams fall between."

"It is part of the magic; there will be as many presents as needed. No more, no less." Nicholas sighed, and began placing his creations in brightly colored boxes. "Presents are an important part of childhood."

"They are," Ombric agreed with mild surprise. "I'm curious, though, how a King of Bandits comes to the decision to become such an accomplished toy maker. No wizard has the power to change the human heart, so this," he held out the bauble for the young man to wrap, "must have been a part of you from the very start."

"Ha." Nicholas took the toy, and watched almost wistfully as it changed into an acorn. "You would wonder, wouldn't you? I've told you, I grew up as a wild thing? Out in the forest alone, learning the ways of predator and prey... Now that I am older, if not much wiser, I think to question how a young boy survived alone in the wilderness."

"I have wondered," Ombric admitted, his attention on a gust of wind eddying in the corner of the workshop.

"Will you think me mad, if I tell you I looked forward to the coming of winter?" Shaking his head, Nicholas closed the last box before stacking it atop the others. "I never have understood other's fear of it. To me, winter is a season of plenty. Of — play. When snow was thick on the ground, I would wake up warm each morning, and there would be a new toy to play with. Wondrous things. Toys of ice and frost; little icy birds that could fly, and icy fish that could swim in the swiftest running streams. Blocks and little soldiers and every sort of toy a child could ever want, all made of ice.

"Why, I even had an imaginary friend! A boy like snow to share the toys with." The young man sighed again, resting his chin upon his hand. "Every winter he came, until the year I joined up with the Cossacks. I suppose I simply outgrew him, once I had the company of living, breathing men. But I tell you, Ombric: I miss him. So many years have passed, and still I miss him. I suppose it was... I do not know. The sense of wonder?

"Ah, a child's imagination is a miraculous thing, is it not? And so — I build toys. It is a more useful pastime than thievery, at least." With a self-deprecating smile, Nicholas swept the boxes into a canvas bag. "I need to talk with the Lamas about delivering these to Santoff Claussen. Are you coming, Ombric?"

"A miraculous thing indeed," Ombric murmured, his attention still fixed upon the coldest corner of the workshop. "Go ahead, Nicholas. I'll catch up. Only — was winter never unkind to you? Not once?"

"The only unkindness was that it had to leave, come spring."


	29. help

In The Silence

~29~

Jack tells Sandman many things; all the many things that have happened since he'd left the island of Sleepy Sands. And at times his voice is a high-pitched cry, and at others it's a broken whisper, but at no point does he stop talking. He tells Sandman of the terrible storm the Wind and he had created, and how a man — an adult — had captured him in a spell of pure belief. He tells of the terrible summer that had overtaken the cabin, and of Teddy and Sarah playing in the snow. He tells of stones that sing and the absolute despair of separation and of a game of chase through the clouds played with a boy of light.

Sandman cries with him, and laughs with him, and always, _always_ hugs him close — and Jack remembers why warmth is nothing to fear. And Sandman knows the astral child; nods his head in recognition as the image of a candle forms in sand above his head. A candle burning brightly in a room of sleeping children, and Jack purses his lips as he studies the image.

"...Nightlight. He's Nightlight, then?"

(yes, frost child. nightlight.)

Golden Dreamsand runs through Jack's fingers, and the children below dream that night of flying over a sea of stars. "He knew Snowflake moonbeam, and he could outrace the Wind. It was so much fun!" He falls back on the cloud of wisps and dreams and pulls streamers of sand across himself as though they were blankets. "I hope we meet again, Sandman. —He called me Little Brother. Isn't that strange? I'm not a star, and he's not a snowflake."

There's a nearly imperceptible pause as gold hovers in the air awaiting direction — then Sandman smiles, a smile of pride and satisfaction, and it's aimed directly at Jack. (yet brothers, nonetheless. where will you go now?)

He doesn't know. He sits and lets sand pour from his shoulders; feels it trickling through his hair and underneath his cloak and beneath his feet as he wriggles his toes. "I — I want to go back to the island. I'd like to sleep in the Sleepiest sand and sing the sun up with the mermaids. I'd like to listen to seashells march in time to children's whispered wishes... I'd like to stay with you — forever. But, I think... I think Thaddeus _needs_ me, Sandman. Something inside him is broken, like, like **I** was, when Pitch tricked me. He's _broken_, and no one else seems to know.

"I think I'd like to try to help him."

(a good choice. frost child, kind child. come home when you are ready.)

Jack sleeps upon Sandman's cloud; sleeps and dreams about the creation of dreams and swimming with mermaids in star-struck seas, but dawn finds him back in the valley sitting high above the cabins on a sturdy pine branch, swinging his feet as he waits for the children to awaken. The Moon has long since slipped below the horizon, and the sun has limned the eastern mountains in light.

He swings his feet, and keeps careful watch upon the cabin's door as he moves his staff aside to afford the lady room to sit. Her arrival makes not a sound; her weight is as nothing upon the branch, but Jack knows it is her by the coolness of her cloak as it swirls around him.

"Hello, Jack."

"I called for you," he finally says as he curls his toes into the thick bark of the pine. "I called and called — but you didn't come. You said — you would come."

"When needs must. Yes, I do remember telling you that." There's a casualness to her tone, a hint of chiding that forces him to look at her. "And if I had come, what would you have had me do, dearling? It wasn't _I_ that raised the blizzard; that was entirely _you_. And if the consequences were harsher than you were expecting, well, _here_ you are now, safe — and as sound as I expect you'll ever be." Her grin is as sharp as the teeth it displays. "Oh, I'll freely admit the fire had me worried, but you handled it splendidly! So, as you can see, you _didn't_ need my help at all."

She has the kindest face in all the world, and she has the cruelest face in all the world; he's always known that about her, always _known_ she has two sides. _Knowing_ has not prepared him in the slightest. "Maybe... Maybe it wasn't help I wanted."

"Please, Jack." She leans back, and her hair twists and rises in a breeze not of the Wind's making. "You wanted me to come and make things _better_. What lesson would you have learned from _that_? And what would you have done the next time you made such a foolish mistake? No, dearheart. No. _Now_ you know your actions have consequences, and I think that's worth a season's pain."

He swallows back grief and presses Snowflake tightly to his chest. "And if I hadn't been able to save Teddy?"

Her savage smile changes as swiftly as a cloud passing across the sun; her cruelty is eclipsed by kindness. "Be thankful, Jack, that you've not yet had to learn that particular lesson. There comes a time when, no matter how much you try, no matter how much you _care_ — you cannot save your children. You let them go, let them be _free_ to make their own mistakes — and they'll break your heart, Jack. Absolutely they'll _shatter_ you. It's part of being a parent."

As if it has a will of its own his hand seeks hers out; wraps around hers gratefully as the clasp is returned. "I'm not a parent."

"But they are your children."

He leans against her side, and she covers him with her cloak. Together, they watch the door to the cabin open, spilling forth two children dressed for winter play. "If — if I call for you again, and you do not come... does that mean I can handle it on my own? That — I can take care of myself?"

"Perhaps. Mayhap. Or it could simply mean that I'm unable to be there for you. Oh, I could keep you wrapped within my hair and you'd be forever more safe — and you have _no idea_ how much I'd like to do so... but I think you'd rather go play." She presses a soft kiss to his temple and draws back her cloak. "Go show your children what a frost child can do."

She disappears in the shifting sunlight filtering through the pine needles above, but Jack's already jumping to the ground. He _plays_ with the children; plays as he dreamt of the winter before; builds them a snowman three times their height in a matter of seconds with a single swing of his staff. Builds a fort of snow for Teddy and a house of snow for Sarah, and between the two he leaves snowballs, dozens and dozens of snowballs just the right size for small, mittened hands.

"You've been busy," Thaddeus says, admiring the structures while ducking a wildly flung snowball thrown by his son — and getting hit in the side by a snowball thrown by Jack. "I wasn't sure you'd be here this morning..." He scrapes snow from his coat, and smiles fondly at the children, _all three_. "Thank you."

Jack grins in return and forms another snowball. Something might be broken inside Thaddeus — but he'll do his best to mend it. If his relic could be fixed, Jack thinks, then so too could a man. With enough laughter. Playing, and laughter, and _fun_.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ ^^;; There was tons I wanted to say — but now I can't remember any of it o.o Oops._

_Many heartfelt thanks to _Alaia Skyhawk, Alana-kittychan, DragonsFlame117, hisokauzumaki, Bookworm Gal, Yue Hikari, lurkerlaine, Nefarious Seraph 13, Anne Camp, SecretSnow, !A4E!, myrddin767, Clio Ying, RandomKrazyPerson, Crystal Peak, Rahar Moonfire, UVNight, oceanlover4evr, Kaylessa, blackkyu, Dragowolf, Guest, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure,_ and _bookworm_ for their reviews! Thank you so much, and I hope you all have a wonderful day filled with Nutella. Because everything is better when it's filled with Nutella. Unless you have a tree nut allergy ^^;; Then... no Nutella for you. Here, have a pretzel instead._

_A brief note on the Lamadary: The Lamadary is the temple slash rocket ship located on the highest mountain in the Himalayas. It should be noted that this mountain is never named in the books (that I can remember... if it is, could you give me the page, please?), leading one to wonder if there's an unknown, unseen mountain higher than Everest. In the last grumpy!Jack drabble, North is using the Lamadary's workshop to make the toys the children of Santoff Claussen receive at the start of the second book. This is not North's Workshop. As of the end of book 3, it has not yet been built ^_^_

hisokauzumaki:_ I hope to have your drabble written in a few days ^_~_


	30. chain

In The Silence

~30~

It's not the Wind that warns Jack about the oncoming Spring; he can tell for himself in the hesitant fall of his snowflakes, the _heaviness_ that weighs them down and packs them tight one upon another. They smell more of melt than of ice — and his dreams begin filling with the gentle gurgle of streams eager to run. It's odd, he thinks to himself, that he should share the dreams of streams and rivers; their spring dreams are full of rush and want, but their autumn dreams are a comfort as water dares to yearn for cold still days of frozen rest. He wonders what water thinks of the dreams of a frost child, of playing and laughing and _being_ — but though he's asked upon occasion, Snowflake has yet to teach him the language of rivers.

_Snowflake laughs, and tells him there's not much point: He'll never be talking to the same river for two seconds at a time._

Teddy and Sarah are outside playing. He can hear them; hears Teddy's taunts and Sarah's shrill complaints. And he's so very tempted to stay seated upon the beautiful quilt — _his_ quilt, that Thaddeus had given him, along with a room that wasn't nearly as nice as his room in the Dreamsand castle, except that, in some way he couldn't explain, it might have been _better_. He's _tempted_ to stay inside, because he'd never known children could _bicker_ the way these two could; back and forth, give and take, yet _still_ hug afterwards as they went inside for their supper.

But — Teddy's _call_ is stronger today, as it sometimes is; his call to play, his call for _Jack_ though the little boy has no idea, has not the faintest notion a frost child's been living in the cabin's lean-to over the winter. Oh, not constantly — Jack still returns home to the island of Sleepy Sands whenever he's particularly vexed with Thaddeus, or when the children's arguments turn spiteful, or when Rachel strides across the yard with a shadow settled about her shoulders that only a fool would face. But he always returns — even if it weren't for the pull, he'd return — and he's spent enough nights in the lean-to that the walls sparkle with frost at midday, and the quilt crackles whenever Thaddeus sits upon the bed.

As he does now, settling next to Jack with a half-mocking, half-satisfied groan. "The weather's warming," the man says, flexing bare fingers upon his knees. "I suppose you'll be going soon, then?" There's a question hidden within his question, as if he hadn't dared asked what was truly on his mind. "Where... where do you go, spirit? Back to Heaven? Surely not back to the earth..."

Jack snorts, and sends frost spiraling across the man's boots. "Wasn't ever _in_ the earth; I'm a frost child, not a groundhog." The idea startles a laugh from him, and once started the laugh is impossible to control. "Not — not a groundhog!" He rolls off the bed onto the floor, and fresh peals of laughter pour forth. "Hahahaha!"

"Judging by your amusement, I think I can safely conclude your answer is no." Thaddeus smiles down at him; smiles with lips and eyes and the set of his shoulders. "Well. Wherever you hie, go with my blessings, child. And... you're more than welcome back next winter — if you so choose. I know you have other places to be; I've seen you leave and return this whole season, but just in case... I'll keep the lean-to open for you, despite Rachel's..." The man coughs as a fiery blush spreads across his cheeks. "Well, Rachel believes me unbalanced, regardless."

He smiles back at the man before rolling to his feet. "Rachel believes she can command the sun to rise. Come to think of it," he swings his staff, then swings around it in a light dusting of snow; eternal partners in an intricate dance of ice and art, "if I were the sun, and Rachel told me to rise? I wouldn't argue! Even if I had to budge Moon over to do it!"

Static twitches against his skin, an electric current that urges him to move, to _go_ and _play_ and he dashes out the door, leaving Thaddeus sitting on the bed in bemusement. "Wind!" he calls as he somersaults into the air, landing atop a sadly diminished snowman that Teddy's valiantly trying to repair. "Spring is coming! Seeds stir in the soil and the geese are flying. Where should we go? What should we see?"

The Wind is surprised, for it itself has only just noticed the turning of the season — but movement is the Wind's nature, and traveling with its child is a treat it never tires of. South they'll go, of course, unless they'd rather visit winter's bastions in the far, far north. South, though, has children whose dreams of tree houses and swimming have turned to sleds and _snow days_. The high, majestic mountains of the south feel undressed without their winter mantels. The Wind would prefer south, if Jack doesn't mind.

"Silly," Jack croons, tangling his fingers in the Wind. "The mountains can dress themselves without my help. Although, perhaps, not as handsomely." He's ready to go; his shadow is restive and wants to stretch, and even Snowflake is awake and eager at the promise of new games.

He freezes the snowman solid before jumping off; lands lightly upon the snow below — but _not_ as a snowflake. No snowflake leaves an impression, no matter how delicate, of bare feet but Jack does not notice as he yanks the knotted end of Teddy's scarf in farewell. Tugs at the end of the scarf stuffed inside the boy's coat pocket, and pulls out with the knitted wool a chain of gleaming gold.

"Hey!" Sarah says, rushing over and grabbing up the chain before Jack can do much more than gape. "You said you lost it. I knew you were lying!"

And — with a feeling as summer burning against his skin — _Sarah_ is fully his child. _His_ child, as Teddy is _his_, and Jack curls against pain as the boy tears the chain from his sister's grasp. Curls and gasps against Teddy's renewed _call_ for fresh snow and fun.

"It's mine, Sarah! I found it, and that makes it **mine**."

"It's a necklace, and necklaces are for girls!"

"Children!" Thaddeus calls sternly, and the chain drops to the snow as neither child is willing to claim it now that their father has voiced his disapproval. "What have I told you about squabbling?" As the children open their mouths to hurl further accusations the man raises a warning finger. "No. While you may have found the chain, Teddy, did not your mother set it aside for safe keeping? And did you not set our first home on _fire_ last winter in your search for its hiding place?"

"Yes, Papa," Teddy replies, his face reddened with shame as much as the deepening cold descending on the yard.

"But Papa!" Sarah tries, her mittened hands outspread. "It's so pretty! And I'd take good care of it—"

"No!" With a hand on each young shoulder, Thaddeus forcibly turns his children away from the object of their quarrel, then gives them each a light push towards the cabin. "Get inside, both of you. And you're to tell your mother _exactly_ why you've been sent in early. _And_ tell her I'm ridding us of this cursed thing once and for all. Now go."

Jack doesn't watch the children trudge dejectedly back into their home. He doesn't look at Thaddeus, nor the man's ferocious glower. Instead he stares at the innocent, lovely, broken chain abandoned in the snow — and knows it as a piece of himself. As his staff is his. As _Snowflake_ is his... He grasps the relic through his cloak; holds his breath as Thaddeus bends and slowly, slowly lifts _a sliver of his self_.

"Child," Thaddeus whispers, all traces of reproach wiped from his face by concern. "Is the chain yours?"

Jack nods frantically, and holds his hands out the same as Sarah — only his tremble in need instead of demand. His very _self_ shakes; he'd been missing a piece — and he hadn't even known. Only, his lake has not _called_ to him the way it used to. He visits it more from habit than need, and _how could he not have known?_ Why had he not wondered how Teddy could be _his_ before he'd ever played with the boy?

Thaddeus releases the chain and Jack grabs it; hides it within his fist as he vaults back, landing behind the protection of his upright staff. He doesn't think Thaddeus will ask for the chain back; doesn't know why the man would give it to him then wish it returned — but he can't take the chance. _He can't._ Snowflake is singing of stars and light, and his staff pulses in his grip as frost spreads outwards across the yard to the forest beyond.

"You _caught_ it." The man's eyes reflect frostlight and awe. "You can _touch_ it, spirit." His expression then darkens; not with any hint of anger, but with dawning sorrow. "I suppose you have no reason to come back, then. Next winter," he sighs, looking years older. "I'm not sure what to look forward to, now."

He doesn't know how to reassure the man; can't bring himself to step nearer while his nerves jangle and his skin twitches, so he does what comes naturally to a frost child. Gripping chain and staff in one hand, Jack pelts Thaddeus with snowballs as rapidly as he can form them. And smirks as the man wipes snow from his face with bellowing laughs.

"Ah, so I'm not to pity myself, am I?" Thaddeus licks snow from his lips, and his face is once again young. "Take care of yourself, spirit, wherever your path leads you — and I shall _rationally_ expect your return next winter."

Nodding, Jack takes to the air, leaving behind the faintest intimations of footprints. "Next winter!" he promises, then, "Wind! Let's go!" They'll head south as they always, eventually do — but first he needs to go to the roof of the world. He needs a storyteller's help.

_The chain needs to be repaired._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Bwahaha! Now you know how Teddy could be Jack's child before Jack ever met him ^_^ You know, I was surprised no one had picked up on it; there were originally three parts to the necklace. The pendant, the bail — and the chain the Moonmouse chewed through ^_~ The chain that had been in Jack's lake — until a little boy, swimming in the lake, found it. Sure, the chain isn't quite as important as the other two parts — but it's important enough. _

_Urgh. The next part — actually decided to spread itself over the next three parts. And is putting up quite the fight against being written. What a bother._

_Many hearty thanks to _Bookworm Gal, Clio Ying, Fumus000, Twilight Cardmistress, hisokauzumaki, 1valleygirl4, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, fourty-eight, Alaia Skyhawk, Anne Camp, Yue Hikari, RandomKrazyPerson, myrddin767, whylime, Crystal Peak, Nefarious Seraph 13, Alana-kittychan, Rahar Moonfire, blackkyu, FrostFan, Dragowolf, Lunar Apocolypse, Night's Flower, gh0st' .Machine, UVNight_ and _bookworm_ for their reviews! Reviews make Esse glow brighter than Nightlight. Really!_

_Just wanted to add a little note RE: Nightlight. Because it seems like a lot of people are under the impression that something bad happens to him in the books ^^;; Umm, as of the end of book 3, Nightlight is still happily kicking. Katherine's kidnapped, but Nightlight is good. And Nightlight gets chatty in this story, which some people might find odd, but I figure — Nightlight has always been talkative, there's just hardly anyone that can understand him ^_^ Annnd I suppose most people's next question would be why he wasn't in the movie, to which I reply — they must have thought one mute character was enough lol! Okay, that, and no one who hasn't read the books would know who Nightlight is, and they just didn't want to open that kettle of fish._

—_I never want to open a kettle of fish. Eww! Here's to hoping you have a wonderful day free of fish kettles and all that implies ^_^_


	31. abandoned

In The Silence

~31~

The mountains are as grim as he remembers them; tall and foreboding with little concern for one small frost child. The Great Snow Geese, though, honk in cordial welcome and Jack flies amongst them up the steep slopes to the highest peak and the temple resting there. The Lamadary, pale and glowing under the Moon — but not quite the same. The towers are quiet. Sedate. And try as he might, he cannot hear the laughter of a single child.

He needs the storyteller. Only someone adept at weaving tales stands a chance of weaving together the broken strands of his chain — and he _knows_ that the woman with calm, grey eyes is the greatest weaver of stories in all the world. The Wind assures him so — and unlike him, the Wind listens at every window of every house every night — without fail.

But he cannot find her. Through empty halls and up spiraling staircases he travels, but the Lamadary is silent in its abandonment. "Snowflake," he asks, his voice near cracking, "everyone is gone. How am I to find her? How am I to be whole?"

_'—I don't know, Jack boy. Never before has the Lamadary been deserted. It is beyond my experience.'_

"Wind?" He hopes his friend might have advice, but the Wind, too, is stymied — and concerned. Even it has trouble remembering a time _before_ the Lamadary, and always, always since the Lamadary first arrived it's been filled with the murmuring voices of the Lunar Lamas as they went about their arcane tasks. Their absence — is incomprehensible to the Wind. It will look, though. In every nook and crevice, it will search. They must have gone somewhere, mustn't they have?

Jack's not sure if the Wind's trying to reassure him, or itself.

Hope fades as he rechecks every room, looks behind every door, until he's left standing in a courtyard in front of a large metal gong covered in deeply-carved pictures. The pictures tell a story, much the way Sandman does, in images both familiar and strange. But the tale doesn't interest him, because it starts with Pitch — and he wonders _why_ anyone would go through the bother of preserving a story of the Nightmare King. Disturbed by the idea, he taps the gong with his staff, frosting it over with new images, _better_ images of snow-blanketed forests and children skating hand-in-hand across frozen lakes.

Pleased with his work, he continues coating the metal in successive layers of ice until frostlight glows almost as bright as the moon overhead. It then glows _brighter_, for there's moonlight trapped beneath the frost, and Jack becomes aware of a _presence_ — a kindly, cherishing presence — observing him. Fondly. _Lovingly._

_He has the Moon's attention._

It's enough to send him to his knees. Not even the cruel-kind lady _cares_ the way the Moon does — and it's terrifying. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out; not pleas nor accusations nor demands for explanations, just a panicked, breathless gasp as he huddles underneath the remnants of his cloak.

_'Jack boy!'_ Snowflake quivers against his chest the same as his staff shakes within his grasp. _'Show him the chain! He'll know what to do! He can help!'_

He's unsure — the Moon has never helped before — but then, the Moon has never, not _once_ ever paid such _attention_ to him since telling him his name. He raises the golden chain, and dares to stare up at the brilliant face of the Moon. "It's broken," he says past teeth that want to chatter. "It's broken, and I — I need it fixed! I need to be fixed, Moon! I don't want to be broken anymore. Not anymore."

He sniffles, and the Wind wraps around him, a Wind scattered with moonbeams that flicker and dance along Jack's upraised arm. "I thought the storyteller could help — but I can't find her. Please, Moon... I don't know what to do. I _never_ know what to do!"

Moon's attention, though, is waning; turning towards some other less troublesome trouble. He jumps into the air hoping to regain the Moon's notice; flies high into the star-strewn sky — but no matter how high he climbs the Moon is higher, and eventually the Wind catches up to him — and cushions his fall back to the dinner plate earth below.

"Why?" he keens, crumpling in a grieving heap at the base of the gong. _"Why?!"_

_'Why why why?'_ the moonbeams echo his wail, equally dismayed, and even Snowflake is in shock, repeating the question in hurt disbelief. _'Why? Why?! My Jack boy's done nothing wrong!'_

_No. He hasn't._ Light streaks into the temple before taking the form of a slender boy bearing a diamond tipped staff. _Don't cry, Little Brother. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here to help. Please don't cry._ With utmost concern Nightlight wipes tears of hail away from Jack's face; gathers the tears, and closes his fist tight around them before wrapping his arms around the frost child. _You're not alone. Never think that. More people care about you than you know._

"Nightlight." Desperately Jack returns the hug, pressing his face into the astral boy's shoulder. "My chain is broken. I didn't know, but it's broken. And the storyteller's gone; not even the Wind knows where... And Moon... Moon..." He shudders, but there's comfort in the thin, strong arms around him. "Moon _left. Why did Moon leave?_"

_To get me. To let me know where you were._ Nightlight pulls back until they're sitting side by side in the middle of the courtyard. _Your chain is broken?_

"Yeah." He lifts his hand and spreads his fingers, displaying the riven necklace. "I hadn't known. I _thought_ it was my _lake_ that was mine — but it's the chain, instead. And... it's not like Snowflake, or my staff, but it's still a _part_ and it doesn't feel _right_."

_Ah._ Brow lifted in thought, the astral child runs his finger the length of the chain, resting it where the golden strands are frayed apart. _Chewed. I'd always wondered._ He bites at his lip, the same as Jack bites at his lip, and together they examine the damaged necklace. _You were hoping to have it woven anew? Is that why you were looking for Katherine?_

"The storyteller? Yes." He nods, and digs his toes into a crack that ice has chipped into the flagstone. "She's the best weaver in the world."

_She is,_ Nightlight agrees, standing and offering Jack his hand. _And if she doesn't know how to mend it, North might. North can fix anything._

It's at the tip of his tongue to ask who North is — North who can fix _anything_; and is it the same North that kept the Lamadary children from listening to his story? — but he's holding Nightlight's hand, and they're rushing through the air so very, _very_ fast that he lets out a thrilled yelp instead. And Nightlight laughs in return, until they're surrounded in light and mist and snow as they run away from dawn's fiery edge, back into the heart of night.

_They've caught up with the Moon_ but the gleaming surfaces of clouds hold more interest as they leap from one to the next, and while Nightlight can jump farther, Jack can _call_ clouds beneath his feet — and it's a race that the astral child is bound to win if only for the fact that Jack doesn't know where they're going. At the moment, it's not important. _Nothing_ is truly important, if there's no fun to be had while doing it.

Jack comes to a stop next to Nightlight atop a thin wisp of rain-dark cloud that lightens perceptibly beneath his bare feet. The other boy is peering down, and he joins him in observing the thickly forested land below; behind their bent backs their staffs tangle together companionably.

"Is she down there?" he asks, spotting the translucent golden haze of children long asleep. "I — I don't think I've ever been to this village. The Wind's never brought me here before."

_She's there._ Nightlight grins, a grin as sharp as the angle of his elbows. _She couldn't go with North; she could never leave the Small Ones behind. Come. Let me introduce you to Santoff Claussen._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Yay for Nightlight showing back up! And much, much -gigglesnort- at _Kaylessa's_ comment that the hug between Jack and Nightlight is the "boniest hug _ever_." Bwahaha! Yes, yes it is! Worse than two scarecrows!_

_Many thanks to _myrddin767, Twilight Cardmistress, Rahar Moonfire, FyreFlyte, Clio Ying, UVNight, Bookworm Gal, Fumus000, Alaia Skyhawk, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Crystal Peak, !A4E!, Alana-kittychan, Redemmo, RandomKrazyPerson, bookworm, Anne Camp, ThatOneFan, blackkyu, fourty-eight_ and _Dragowolf_ for their reviews! I appreciate them so, so much! And — several make me larf for minutes after reading them ^o^_

blackkyu:_ First... Huggles! Second... hie: to hasten; speed; go in haste. Old old word that you wouldn't use in everyday conversation — but Thaddeus would :D_

_~and in case anyone's wondering about riven: a past participle of rive. rive (LOL!): to tear or rend apart; to separate by striking; split; cleave._

_Hey, at least I'm not using embiggen: a perfectly cromulent word! -_-;; Although now I _want_ to..._

_~and kettle of fish: An awkward situation; a predicament. or, A situation which is recognized as different from or as an alternative to some other situation, and which is not necessarily unfavorable. And it appears that Esse learned most of her English from idioms popular centuries ago ^^;; Which she _will not_ tell you her family uses all. the. time o.o_

_~and, here's _hisokauzumaki's_ drabble ^_^_

~o~

"I don't know how we got roped into this." Bunny doesn't like the snow. He's _never_ liked the snow. It balls up in the fur between the pads of his paws until he's walking on awkward chunks of ice. It's cold, and it's slushy, and he _despises_ the smell of his fur as it gradually dries. There's very little about winter he _does_ like — mostly, that it will eventually _end_ — but of all the things he actively dislikes about the season, snow comes in second.

North's overblown holiday will always top his list. As if toys would ever be more important than eggs! Children can break both in a matter of seconds. And a broken toy is just a scattering of useless, ugly parts; but a broken, hard boiled egg? That was the makings of a meal!

"Bunny." There's a tightness to Tooth's lilac eyes, as if she'd tried explaining this before. "We all promised to help Jamie with his history report."

"Right. I got that. What I want to know is how we went from telling stories up in his room to wandering a bloody graveyard at midnight!"

"Because while we tell stories of people we knew, Jack says he was knowing quite personally founder of town." North is comfortable in the freezing cold — but then, North has the option of taking _off_ his fur trimmed coat when he gets back to his workshop. "Is exciting for young boy to gain knowledge of childhood hero straight from mouth of horse."

"There is so much _wrong_ with that statement." Bunny crinkles his nose as he walks around a defaced tombstone. "Not that the icicle _isn't_ a show pony..." He crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, then scowls as he catches Sandy mimicking his movements. "I mean, come on! What's so spiffy about this Burgess bloke?"

Bunny regrets his outburst when he's suddenly faced with Jamie's outraged pout. "Thaddeus Burgess was a great man!"

"He was!" Jack agrees with such a look of earnest belief that Bunny bites back on his automatic denial. "He was always nice, and he never minded getting caught up in a snowball war. He even gave me a new coat when he noticed how tattered my cloak had gotten."

There's a question mark above Sandy's head, and Tooth can't help but ask. "Are you saying he _saw_ you, Jack?"

"Saw? Of _course_ he saw me. Thaddeus was a wizard." Grinning with wicked delight, Jack pounces on Jamie and ruffles the boy's hair into wild tufts. "Pretty neat, huh, kiddo?"

North is thoughtful as he tugs at his long, white beard. "A wizard? But Ombric was the last..."

"_Trained_ wizard," Jack huffs, coming to rest atop a large, marble monument. "Thaddeus didn't have the schooling, but he certainly had the power." He taps the marble with his staff, and frost outlines letters that time has worn to near illegibility. "And here he is! He asked if he could be buried here," he tells Jamie as he jumps from the stone to the snow-covered ground. "Wasn't that nice?"

"Umm..." the young boy isn't sure what's particularly _nice_ about wanting to be buried in a cemetery — but neither does he want to offend Jack, who's smiling in honest delight.

Tooth is hovering in front of the monument in an attempt to read the inscription. "Thaddeus Burgess. March 17, 1768 to April 12, 1868. Well," she gives a small, constrained smile, "he certainly lived a full life."

"Wait a minute..." Bunny joins Tooth to double check the dates. "April 12 — that, that was Easter Sunday..." There's a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he looks down at the newest Guardian, hoping that he's wrong. "Jack?"

"I — I don't want to talk about that. Okay?" Shaking his head, Jack sits on the tombstone closest to Thaddeus', and pats it with fond regard. "So, Jamie," he addresses the boy, cheer creeping back into his voice. "Pretty neat, huh? Thaddeus started the graveyard for my children, and I thought it was really sweet that he wanted to be buried next to the singing stone."

"Children?" Tooth asks numbly, but by the grieving expression on Sandy's face it's not a question she wants answered.

"Singing stone?" North asks, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat to ward off a chill that has nothing to do with winter.

"Yeah!" Jack points to the piece of granite he's sitting on. "At least, that's what I originally thought it was. I didn't know anything about, you know, tombstones at the time. I thought it was mermaid song!" He laughs, and the bright sound fills the cemetery. "Anyway, Thaddeus put it up so my children would never be forgotten. Although..." A thoughtful frown tugs at his mouth, and there's not a trace of mirth left in his voice when next he speaks. "I guess... my sister is buried here. My whole family, actually."

Jack lifts his eyes to the Moon, then shrugs. "Well, it was a long time ago. And, like I said, Thaddeus made the stone, so it's not like she was ever completely forgotten..."

There's a sniffle, and Bunny looks down to find Jamie wiping away tears. "Hey," he says, bending over and placing a protective paw across the boy's back. "None of that, now. You heard Frosty; he's happy enough with the memorial."

Jamie's mouth twists, and the blue yarn of his mittens soak up fresh tears. "Have you read the inscription?"

"Huh?" Jack's confused, for while being with his very first children always _hurts_ deep inside, their deaths should hold no sorrow for the others. It truly was a long, long time ago. "I come to read it every few years. Of course I've always wondered how Thaddeus knew they were still playing; but then, Thaddeus always was a child at heart, as well as being a wizard. And — hey! What's up with all the sad faces?"

Sandman is crying tears of golden glass, and Tooth's tears fall like glitter from her lashes. North is hiding his face in the coarse, black fur of his coat collar. And Bunny, tough, unflappable Bunny, is moaning ever so quietly as if his heart were breaking.

Taking a deep breath, North raises his face and thumps Jack gently on his back. "Is a bit cold out tonight, yes? Let us go back to Jamie's room. I have wonderful story to tell of jeweler named Fabergé, and the wonderful eggs he crafted. Which I, being the best thief in all the Russias, stole, of course!" And if his wink lacks its customary hint of wonder, none of the other Guardians are willing to call him on it.

They begin to make their way back across the graveyard, all except for Bunny, who's spotted something moving near the tree line. Something large; something that smells _familiar_, like food dye and chocolate and the dusty scent of tunnels dug. So he makes his way over, paying no attention to the snow balling up between his toes.

"It's you."

Aster stares down at him, and Bunny can't help but hunch underneath his older self's regard. "Yes, it's me. Again. Because you failed to listen the first time. Or the fifth. Or the twentieth. I certainly don't _remember_ being so stubborn. Well, perhaps I did not consider it _being_ stubborn, when I was you. Which I'm very grateful I'm _not_ anymore. Do you see? Do you finally begin to understand?"

"Yeah. Not — not everything, but, yeah..."

"Good. Jack's one of my dearest friends, and I _won't_ have you ruining that. Blast paradox — I _will not have it!_ It's well and past time you grew up, E. Aster Bunnymund."

"Well said!" Bunny can't help but stare as another future self steps out from behind a pine.

"Thank you." Aster pushes his spring-green glasses back up his nose, and tilts his ears in acknowledgement. "By your presence here, I can assume your back-up is necessary."

"As you said, blast paradox. This isn't a chance we're willing to take."

Bunny stares slack-jawed as dozens, no, _hundreds_ of Bunnymunds emerge from the forest, dressed in robes of green and clutching golden staffs, each and every one more intimidating than the last. "Crikey!"

Aster cringes, his distaste painfully obvious. "Indeed. Well, off with you then. I do believe you have some apologizing to do."

Dropping to all fours, Bunny races from the graveyard as if running for his life. By the sound of the Pookan war cry behind him — he might not have been far off.


	32. tree

In The Silence

~32~

Floating down to the village is like swimming in the sea; there are currents that pull and currents that tug and a taste on his lips not quite of salt though it pleasantly tingles. And he knows by the way the air washes against his skin that, had he tried entering the village without Nightlight's aid, he'd be dealing with far more than the slight tingle that isn't salt. There's warning laced within the currents; an edge that feels like the barrier raised by Thaddeus' spell, and he can't help but feel nervous for he never wants to be _trapped_ again. Not even if it's with Nightlight.

_It's okay,_ the astral boy reassures him, the moonbeam in the tip of his staff lighting their way down. _They're Ombric's protections, against those whom would harm the village._

Jack thinks on this; thinks quickly as he somersaults and lands neatly on the crook of his staff in front of a gigantic, watchful tree growing at the center of the village. "I throw snowballs. And sometimes the adults get mad... Is there harm in that? Or sometimes they'll slip on ice, or sometimes the Wind will steal their hats, or—"

Nightlight places a slim, glowing finger against Jack's lips to halt his questions, and laughs his laugh of mist. _Mischief is not harm, if it is done with a merry heart._ Lambent green eyes narrow, and there's the tiniest spark of wickedness peeking through pale lashes. _Otherwise I'd have trouble coming here myself!_

He can't help but grin at the wicked, winsome glint; grin and swing down from his staff as light, airy snow begins to coat the sleeping village. "Do you like playing tricks? Tricks are fun, except... sometimes they're not." He purses his lips, and rests his chin against the curved top of his staff; the snow falls harder as his pendant comes to rest against the gleam of gold imbedded in the wood. "Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference — if it will be a good trick, or bad. So I ask Snowflake, because the Wind doesn't actually care if anyone gets hurt..." He blinks as fingers are once more pressed against his lips. "Hmm?"

_Moonbeams give good advice. Katherine — gives better advice. Come._ Nightlight begins walking towards the towering, twisted tree, and Jack follows behind. He's curious about the tree, and he wants to greet it as he greets the pines around his lake, but at the same time the tree feels _different_. _It feels like the starforge_ if not as strongly, and Jack stops before the first step leading up to the door.

There's an echo in the vault of his memories; a voice claiming he'd destroyed the starforge — and he doesn't want to damage the tree. Surely that would be seen as harm. And the air swirling around him is suddenly more _aware_ as the tingle against his skin begins to sting. _He shouldn't be here._ There's a reason the Wind avoids this village, and he thinks he should leave. _Now._ Before he can't.

_No._ Nightlight's hand is resting on his shoulder, but it's not _him_ Nightlight is talking to but a lady veiled and gowned in glittering jewels. _What happened _had_ to happen, and it could have happened no other way. My Little Brother is welcome here — or I will consider myself cast out as well._

"It is spring, and he's brought ice." The lady approaches, her slippered, gilded feet gliding above the dusting of snow. "In his thoughts is the destruction of stars. In his mind lurks the very image of the Nightmare King — and you would have me welcome him? Would the trees have let him pass? Would the bear meekly stand aside and let him by? I think not—"

"Let him be," a voice says from behind them; a soft, soothing, voice fit for the telling of stories. "Spirit of the Forest, you may guard Santoff Claussen, but someone far more powerful than yourself guards Jack."

Nightlight snorts with amusement, and spangles of light flash from the tips of his hair as he shakes his head. _Katherine, is that flattery?_

The answering snicker isn't elegant, but it's as comforting upon Jack's shoulders as the astral boy's arm. "My mistake. _One_ of Jack's many, many guardians is puissant beyond measure — and then there's Nightlight, who'll _glow_ at you quite fiercely."

_Yes!_ Nightlight agrees, shaking his staff for emphasis while smirking at the young woman standing in the tree's doorway. _No shadow can stand against light._ Although his grin does not fade, there's a hint of something vastly serious lurking in his gaze as he returns his attention to the woman of veils. _Do you understand, Spirit? I _stand_ by my Brother._

There's silence about the tree, a silence filled with the sound of falling snow and the whisper of veils brushing against one another as the lady raises one begemmed hand in surrender. "Oh. _Oh,_ I recognized him not. I see now; though it snows in spring — he works not against Nature. My apologies."

"Umm..." The air is only air, coolly brisk and thick with snowflakes, and Jack doesn't know what to say. He thinks the lady well within her rights to complain about his snow, for it's several weeks into spring and he would have long since headed south if not for his current errand. "It's — okay. I guess. I could try stopping the snow, if you want?"

"No, Jack," Katherine declares as she moves down the steps while pulling the edges of her shawl more closely about her. "It's good to see you happy. I was about to turn in when I happened to glance out a window. Imagine my surprise to see such a late snowfall! A wonderful surprise, by all means; the children will be delighted. I expect, though, that Nightlight brought you here for more than a snow day. I'd say come inside where it's warm," she says with good humor, "but I fear that would send you running! So, welcome to Big Root, Jack. Do come in."

"Big Root?" he asks as the lady of jewels bows and fades back into forest. Nightlight urges him forward by the arm around his shoulders, and Jack places his hand against the stair's railing to steady himself. He then pauses, there on the first step, for the wood beneath his hand _throbs_ in cheerful greeting; the _tree_ is glad to meet him; has heard so _much_ about him, and wonders if, later on, he might play amongst its branches, for it's never before sheltered a frost child — and it would very much like the privilege.

Jack rubs his hand along bark that practically purrs beneath his touch and, unable to help himself, he lays against the railing, pushing his cheek against rippling wood. "I — I'd like that. I'd like to play in your branches... if that's alright?" he asks the storyteller, who's watching him in open curiosity — for the tree is her home, and it seems the proper thing to do.

"I think there's little that would make Big Root happier." Katherine fondly brushes her knuckles across the open door, then beckons. "But perhaps we should take care of business, first? And my nightgown is scarcely adequate for playing outdoors."

Nightlight's grin is full of understanding, and he swings once around the railing before bounding up the steps. _Big Root is the best tree in the world, but playing is for later. After Katherine is done with the weaving._

"Okay." Reluctantly Jack unwinds from the railing and follows the two through the doorway into the warm, welcoming heart of Big Root. Katherine is settling into a worn, plush chair pulled close to a crackling fire — and it's odd, there being a fire _inside_ a tree, but Big Root doesn't mind, not in the least, for homes require fires, and Big Root is, first and foremost, a home. And Jack wants to disagree — for he's _inside_ and frost children are never _welcome_ inside _homes_ — but the ancient tree insists, and Jack has a feeling it's not an argument he would win.

The astral boy only laughs; laughs and rolls on the rug-strewn floor; rolls until he's pressed to the downy side of a drowsing goose, and he reaches to pull Jack down next to him.

Katherine is beaming, and her story book is stirring on the arm of the chair, fluttering his pages as if they were wings and rubbing tiredly at his eyes before putting on a pair of glasses. And through his glasses he stares at Jack; stares then gifts them with a beatific smile full of secrets and knowledge. "Jack Frost! I was wondering when you'd show back up. I never doubted you would. It's in your nature, you know. Years might go by, then one morning you'll look and see Frost at your window!"

Creeping forward, both frost child and the frost surrounding him reach out to the chortling book — but take care not to touch. Books are precious. Books contain _stories_, and this particular book, Jack knows, contains _his_ story. "Thaddeus doesn't think it proper, looking through windows."

"How silly! I do hope you didn't take it to heart; it's a frost child's _duty_ to peer through windows." Still chuckling, the book folds several of its small arms together and gives the impression of bowing, as much as the spine of a book _can_ bow. "And while I know all about you, Jack Frost, it occurs to me I've yet to introduce myself. Mr. Qwerty, at your service."

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Teeheehee, Mr. Qwerty!_

_Many huggly thanks to _Twilight Cardmistress, AnnLuc, Alaia Skyhawk, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, myrddin767, Bookworm Gal, UVNight, Rahar Moonfire, RandomKrazyPerson, whylime, oceanlover4evr, DragonsFlame117, SecretSnow, OrionRedde, Crystal Peak, Anne Camp, Fumus000, hisokauzumaki, Alana-kittychan, candidus-lupus-full Moon, the bushy haired know-it-all, etherealloveliness, CrimsonButterfly94, Dragowolf, ForeverWillEnd, blackkyu, Hannah, bookworm _and _farfetched4_ for their reviews! ^o^ It seems that everyone got a chuckle out of the army of Bunnymunds XD And yes, it's proper to be terrified considering the amount of chocolate they'd eaten._

_It seems that everyone who has read the books sees the incredible similarities between the characters of Nightlight and Jack. And I agree - Jack basically takes the place of Nightlight in the movie. There are small differences, of course... but not all that many. And this is what makes me think that Jack had never been in the original plot for the books. Why would there need to be two Nightlight characters? So, I absolutely believe that when the 4th book comes out, we're going to be introduced to a radically different Jack, because Joyce will have to differentiate between him and Nightlight. And at that point, there will be no way of blending the book and movies universes - unless it's a crossover._

_Thankfully, they work together wonderfully in fanfiction, where we can all happily die of the cute!_

_And, as far as I know, none of _The Guardians_ books have been translated out of English. However, the English versions are available on several of Amazon's country specific sites, which is a nifty way to not have to hassle with customs or international shipping. It's not the best solution, but right now I think it's the only one around ^^;;_

_~and, for those wondering about unusual words..._

_lambent: softly bright or radiant; marked by lightness or brilliance especially of expression_

_puissant: powerful (and used because a synonym such as mighty sounded meh)_


	33. tear

In The Silence

~33~

The fire crackles in the fireplace; a magical fire in shades of blues and purples and reds with flames shaped as squirrels and smoke fluttering up the chimney in the form of ash-grey doves. A magical fire inside the most magical tree in all existence — but Jack's not fond of fires, even magical ones, and he's finding the book in front of him far more interesting.

"Hello," he tells the book shyly, pulling back his reaching hand and tucking it in the folds of his cloak. He shouldn't touch; he _knows_ he shouldn't touch, but the thought of all those stories — _his_ story — perched upon the arm of the chair tempts him terribly. But he's watched people introduce themselves; watched from windows as neighbors came by, and while he doesn't dare shake hands with the book, he thinks he might manage other parts of the strange ritual. "H-how do you do?"

"Amazingly well. And _you_ are an amazingly well behaved child! Why, you've scarcely begun earning your reputation; compared to the hellions around here—"

"Mr. Qwerty!" Katherine blushes as she calms the book's agitated pages with soothing fingers. "I hardly think that's a matter to be sharing with our guest." Her cheeks are rosy, and there's a dimple at the corner of her mouth that winks each time she smiles, and her grey eyes see far, far more before her than the simple, magical room nestled at the heart of Big Root — Jack can tell, for he glimpses strange, distant thoughts flickering and diving in the depths of her steady gaze. "Although, I will admit they can be a handful occasionally. There are times I miss my younger days, when there were only a handful of Williams to keep up with and not an entire dynasty."

Nightlight giggles and the goose honks in good-natured agreement, and Mr. Qwerty fusses with his glasses to cover his chagrin. "Do not get me started on the Williams. Why, William the Quickest wanted to know simply _everything_ about suspension bridges, and you would not believe the pout he gave me when I said I needed to check with Bunnymund first: Oh no, time paradoxes are merely trivial annoyances to the great mind that is William the Quickest!"

Jack's not sure what exactly has vexed the storybook; he knows nothing about Williams or suspension bridges, but there _is_ a name he recognizes. "You — know Aster?" he asks, and his fingers are spreading frost along the chair's upholstered arm before he can snatch his hand back. "Sorry," he ducks his head, disappointed he'd so quickly forgotten his private vow not to damage the storyteller's home. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine!" With a sturdy beat of his book page wings Mr. Qwerty launches himself from the chair and circles the room once before he daintily lands on the arm Jack is using to hold his staff. "A little frost is the least of my worries, child. A generation back, a William did his best to launch me into space on a poorly conceived rocket." The book shivers, and not from the ice crystals edging across his feet. "_Poorly_ conceived, and the lad earned the sobriquet Hairless William that summer."

_I remember._ The smirk on Nightlight's face isn't particularly kind — but neither is it cruel. _His hair never did grow back quite the same. —You've met Bunnymund, then?_

"Yes." Jack does his best to withhold his power, but it's harder now that he has the chain, even if the chain is damaged. Or perhaps _because_ the chain is damaged. But he is afraid of hurting the friendly book, so he carefully nudges him back into the storyteller's lap. "A long time ago. I think — an even longer time ago for him. I'm not sure. He didn't make much sense, but I think we'll be good friends in the future. I hope so, at least. I don't know how far away the future is."

Her lips pursed, Katherine is once again watching something beyond the walls of Big Root. "That does sound like an older Bunnymund. I have to admit, the _current_ Bunnymund is a bit of a wet blanket. Don't get me wrong — Aster will always love eggs, but the Bunny running around now is so _intent_ on the Easter holiday that he tends to lose sight of what's important."

"Such as manners. Or courtesy," Mr. Qwerty says.

_Fun,_ Nightlight offers, stretching out on the rug for the sole purpose of running one luminous finger sharply along the bottom of Jack's bare foot.

He giggles and curls his feet underneath him, tugging a strand of the astral boy's hair in retribution before shyly wrapping his hand around Nightlight's wrist to prevent future attacks. "Aster was nice. But — I don't know if I want to meet him again. He told me I shouldn't think too... _poorly_ of him, next time..."

"If he says you'll meet again, Jack, you will. Unfortunately." With a small sigh, she leans forward in the chair as the book climbs up to her shoulder. "I'm glad your first meeting was with Aster at his best. He's an excellent friend — if a bit difficult to understand at times. Now, Jack," she says, as she folds her hands across her lap, "while I'm glad you're here — so very glad! — I have a feeling there was purpose behind your visit."

He's been holding the chain in his hand, pressed into the wood of his staff, and he doesn't _want_ to set his staff down. Nightlight senses his hesitation, and offers to hold his staff for him — and although he's not sure why, he _knows_ there's no safer place for his _self_ to be than in the hands of a star child. So he passes his staff over and lets the golden chain dangle from his fingers, then spreads it out between both hands. The chain chimes in time to the tremble in his hand, and icicles form on the mantle over the fireplace.

"It's broken," he explains, as best he can. "The strands have snapped, and need to be rewoven. Can you? Can you weave them back together?"

Her grey eyes are wide, and startlement has chased away her dimple. "Oh my." She lifts her hand to inspect the chain _but does not touch_ as a spark leaps from the twisted chain to her fingertip, where it sits and glows in smug warning. "I — Nightlight? This can not be... it can't possibly be... We _found_ the last relic, and defeated Pitch..."

_The chain is not a relic,_ the astral boy tells her, and it's not quite a lie, but neither is it the whole truth — but Nightlight slides one sneaky, naughty glance his way, and Jack decides it's not important — or, at least, not as important as the possibility of a new prank. _But it is significant. Can you fix it, Katherine?_

"I'm flattered, but I'm a storyteller, not a jeweler."

"You're a weaver." Jack offers her the chain, then frowns when she shakes her head in sad refusal. "You're the best weaver in the world."

"Of stories, Jack. Of fairytales and folklore..."

_The necklace is a fairytale,_ Nightlight says as he sits next to Jack, catching the chain before it drops to the floor. _I was there when it was made. The stars sang their dream of a Golden Age and the chain wove itself from their hope._ He gently wraps the chain around Jack's wrist, leaving behind wayward glimmers of light that dance and sway along the delicate links. _It has to be made whole — or this world will be lost._

"To darkness?" Katherine asks, and there's a catch in her voice, a hint of disbelief matched equally by a hint of fear. "We've defeated it before. I'd rather not face it again, but if need be — I will. We all will."

"Not darkness." Jack feels his shadow building outside; feels the Wind calling out for him. _Feels_ spring falter in its tracks at unexpected opposition. "Ice."

"I would say throw the chain back into your lake, but that would only postpone the problem." Mr. Qwerty flaps his pages, displaying words and pictures that _writhe_ across the paper in streams and blurred trails of ink. "North might possibly be up to the task, but then again, he'd only be able to _fix_ the chain — and you, child, very much need it to be _whole_. At least we know there _is_ a solution."

_We do?_

"Of course!" The dimple is back next to Katherine's smile as she nods, her eyes bright with obtaining one piece of an intricate puzzle. "Bunnymund told Jack they'd meet again, and _he'd_ certainly know! Are you sure, though, that North won't be able to help?" she asks the book resting on her shoulder. "In some ways, he's a finer wizard than Ombric; there's no one able to blend magic and metal together the way he can, and that seems to be what's needed here."

_No..._ Nightlight leans against him as he returns Jack's staff, but the two pieces of wood have hooked around each other in a friendly tangle and it takes a bit of maneuvering to separate them. Although the young woman cannot hear it, two moonbeams laugh with delight at their children's predicament. _The necklace is not metal. Not really. And this is not something the sword can help North with._

"...Then what about tears? It was the tears of the children of Santoff Claussen that repaired your diamond dagger."

_Taking the sorrows of those you love _does_ make you stronger..._

"But no child will cry for me." Jack bites at his lip and lets the chain slip from his wrist back into his unsteady hand. "No child _knows_ me..."

_...Except one._ Excitement brings a blush of radiance to Nightlight's face as he scrambles to his feet, pulling Jack up with him. _The necklace cannot be repaired with a child's sorrow, nor the tears of a frost child, which will always melt away into merriment._ As if to prove his point he holds out the hand he'd used to wipe away Jack's tears at the Lamadary; instead of pearly hail, the mist of laughter swirls in his palm before blending into the warm, cozy air of Big Root. _An astral child's tear, though—_

"It may be a sound idea," Mr. Qwerty says, but there's doubt weighing down his voice, "if ever you cried. An astral child _has_ no tears."

"No tears of sorrow, that's true." Katherine looks up at them as they stand before her, with her nightgown rumpled and her hair snarled into wild knots, and Jack's certain he's never seen a lovelier woman. "But a tear of joy? —Have you such a thing, Nightlight?"

Nightlight's hand around his own is pleasantly warm, and he hopes the coolness of his fingers isn't uncomfortable for the other boy. By the way the clasp tightens reassuringly — he doesn't think so, but he can't help worrying. But Nightlight only smiles — only _ever_ smiles at Jack, and quirks an eyebrow.

_What goes together better than snow and light?_

A tear gathers in the corner of Nightlight's eye, a tear of shimmering light. _I have had many friends over time. The little Man in the Moon. Dear Katherine. My moonbeam. Even the children of Santoff Claussen. But always, always I was _alone_ — always different. Always _other_. Until now. The stars have given me a Brother; a Brother of my own._ He gathers the teardrop on the tip of his finger; a shining, glistening prism of light.

Jack lifts his palm where the chain is coiled and Nightlight drops the tear against golden strands. Then tear and chain are caught between their hands; hands clasped and foreheads pressed together and moonbeams exultant while power gathers — and a spell takes shape. The first spell every child learns. The spell almost every adult forgets. _The spell_ that makes a star child possible...

_I believe. I believe. I believe._

Nightlight's smile is a mirror of his own as he releases his grasp, and Jack pulls the perfect loop of the chain wide between his spread fingers. There is no break. There are no frayed strands, and Katherine is clapping with such delight that Mr. Qwerty tumbles from her shoulder.

_The necklace is whole._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Happy New Years! Wishing you all the best of luck, as well as the best of jellies, jams, and gumdrops in 2013 ^_^_

_I wanted to give a little warning that I might not (read: probably won't) be able to keep to the daily posting schedule. I'll do my best, but don't be too horribly worried and or disappointed if I miss a day, 'kay? I figure 32 days in a row is pretty much a record of some sorts (at least for me) and my life away from the computer has suddenly gotten demanding, and snotty — and I think my cat's hidden a dead mouse somewhere in this room that I must find, for it is smelly o.O;; What a way to start the new year lol!_

_Beta by _Kaylessa_, who raised a valid point that I tried to fix a bit... but I expect I'll be back to rework a certain section in this part at a later date. -_- Because I am stumped right now._

_Many confetti filled thanks to _Bookworm Gal, RandomKrazyPerson, fourty-eight, Twilight Cardmistress, oceanlover4evr, Alaia Skyhawk, Crystal Peak, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Anne Camp, XxDarkSongxX, etherealloveliness, myrddin767, Rahar Moonfire, hisokauzumaki, Alana-kittychan, Shyleylover3, UVNight, FrostFan, bookworm, Dragowolf, Clio Ying,_ and _hi_ for their reviews. ^o^ And second little warning — there is an upcoming review number in which I'll offer another drabble. It'll take a few more parts to get there, though ^_~ Urm, and it's not an even number ^^;; So, in five, or six, or seven parts, some lucky reviewer will get to make a request. (Lucky? Unlucky? Rubber Ducky? —Okay, I got little sleep last night lol!)_

_sobriquet: nickname_


	34. bloom

In The Silence

~34~

He's sitting on the highest branch of a gnarled, ancient oak, and he can't help but touch the green, whispering leaves around him in awe. It's the end of spring, and the first heated breaths of summer are carried by the Wind — and he greets them with open arms and wonder. A frost child sitting in a leafy tree, and he's done what no snowflake has ever managed to do.

"Hello, summer."

His Snowflake moonbeam rests against his heart and laughs at his fascination. _'A frost child must always follow the winter, but a star child is free to roam where it will.'_

"And what of a child of both frost and stars?" A butterfly has landed on the toe of his left foot, and he giggles at the sensation of its tiny, grasping feet. Colors — there's so many _colors_ outside his season, so vivid and vibrant that occasionally they'll smear across his skin, and he'll spend _days_ streaked with greens and violets and the brilliant yellow of pollen. And the Wind has discovered a new game, tangling the petals of sweet-smelling flowers in his hair, and he tries to return the favor but the Wind smugly informs him that it's _always_ worn such finery — each and every spring.

_'A frosted star child has never before been dreamt — but it was bound to happen. Burning stars are wed to the freezing void. Or it could be this world. Yes, likely — it's just this world.'_

He laughs, and checks on the bird nest behind him filled with hungry, chirping babies with mouths opened to their widest in the hopes of being fed. He _loves_ them, little children that have never seen the snow; new tiny lives so focused on eating and sleeping and _being_ in a way he understands completely. They live as he's always wished to.

He'd bid goodbye to Katherine, there in Santoff Claussen before dawn broke over the village, awakening children to the wonder of a snow day in late spring. He'd said goodbye to Mr. Qwerty, who'd patted his cheek fondly and promised they'd meet again. He'd hugged Nightlight goodbye, but not before the other boy had painstakingly strung his newly whole chain through a clever gap in his pendant and placed the completed necklace over his head.

_Much safer than woven grass,_ Nightlight had said as they strolled along the lumpy surface of a slow, lumbering cloud. _The bail must remain in your staff, but that is for the best. There is always need for a good staff. I think — I like yours better; it has such a wonderful hook for snagging things._

Laughing, he'd flipped his staff upside-down and stood on the crook as it rocked to and fro. "How do you get by, with one so straight?"

_It, too, has its uses. —It gives my moonbeam a place to rest._ There was a secret hidden in the other boy's glowing, green eyes, but Jack had never particularly cared for secrets. They were troublesome things that tended to obligate the one that possessed them, and keeping Snowflake hidden was as much responsibility as he ever wanted. Keeping Snowflake _secret_ was part of a trick that Nightlight assured him would be wonderful indeed — and he hoped that the eventual fun outweighed the current hassle.

_Where will you go now?_

He didn't know. He _still_ doesn't know, though it's been weeks since he's last seen Nightlight. Before, he'd had to follow winter's call. Before, the warming of spring had filled him with vague unease. Now, with all the pieces of his _self_ accounted for and whole, there are no _pulls_, no _stirrings_, no urge except that to play and explore the reborn world.

He could cover cities in frost; he can feel the power within him as well as without as his shadow gathers hopefully overhead. He _could_, but there's a litter of new born kittens softer than snow with noses brighter than any he's ever nipped — and it would be cruel to subject them to cold. He could cover the fields in drifts of snow, but there's eager, thriving crops striving for the sun — and he doesn't think the clumsy, bobbling bumblebees would appreciate having their flowers hidden from them. He could freeze over lakes, but there are children swimming in them; swimming and splashing and shouting with unfettered glee, and he thinks it a shame to take that experience away from them.

Spring is wonderful and summer is amazing, but there are no children that a frost child can play with in the north, so — reluctantly — he asks the Wind if it's ready to travel south. Which it is; the Wind is always ready to _go_ somewhere, anywhere, as long as its frost child is with it. And so they go to one of their favorite, high mountain villages, and children and adults alike are amazed that the first, late snowfall of winter comes with the smell of roses and ripening hay.

The frost that spreads across windows and cobbles takes on new, never before seen patterns of wildflowers and spirited foals and bird eggs hidden inside twig nests. He takes extra care in his art, so that when children crowd around an iced-over rain barrel they can see every feather covering a goose and the goslings she's sheltering beneath her wings. He dreams of rain clouds, and the icicles he spreads about an isolated cottage catch the weak rays of the winter sun and send forth rainbows in their place.

And he hears elders remark that never before have they seen such a mild winter, a winter like an early, welcome spring.

Until spring enters the south itself, and fields of flowers raise their heads above the lightest blanket of snow Jack can provide. Flowers bloom in sprays of orange and pink and purple; he paints himself with them and uses fresh, young grass to weave together the holes in his cloak. And a robin with its red, feathered chest puffed proudly does its best to steal strands of his hair for its nest as he runs through the streets of a town, splashing through puddles and leaving their edges rimed with ice. He laughs, and jumps into the arms of the Wind.

"North!" he tells his friend, and the world passes underneath them in a blur of blue and white and green. Winter has traveled before them, and his shadow is perturbed by snow that is not _theirs_ — and Jack agrees with the sentiment, and gives permission for a flurry or three; the children need _proper_ snow for sledding, not the drab, cheerless stuff currently clinging stubbornly to the ground. Fluffy snow, _bright_ snow that will reflect the Moon and make the nights nearly as bright as days.

He's eager to see how Thaddeus is — and he'd like to look at his quilt again, if Rachel hasn't reclaimed it as she'd threatened to last winter. He wants to play with Teddy and Sarah, even if they begin to argue, because he knows he has a room to retreat to, and Thaddeus will join him there, and tell him stories as if... well... as if...

_As if they were father and son._

Which he knows they're not. Not really. But he likes to pretend, sometimes, after coming back from some distant town after spending a day playing with children that never see him, no matter how they accept his gifts. He likes to pretend that he's coming home, like all children do — and he thinks Thaddeus likes to pretend as well. Thaddeus might not be his father, and Jack might not be his Phillip; it's only a game they play between them. And Jack makes sure to stop himself before he can ever say the words _I believe._

He follows the river up to his valley, up to the cabins — only, there are _more_ of them. A handful more. As if they, too, had sprouted from the fertile soil during the spring. Cabins with new, shining windows behind which he can hear the laughter of children. Many children! He can not help but look, peering in through each clear pane of glass — and behind one of them there's Rachel! As well as Sarah and Teddy, but it's _not_ their cabin... And he races to the home he knows and taps frantically at the window, because Thaddeus is inside and Jack's full to bursting with questions.

The man might not be able to hear Jack at his window, but he does notice frost spreading thickly where previously there had been none, and he hurries from the table to open the door wide in greeting. "You're back! I — I was afraid something had happened; snow first fell a month ago, but I saw no sign of you, child. I can not tell you how much I missed having snow flung in my face. Do come in! Rachel is visiting with her sister, and the children are with her; no need to let the neighbors see me out here talking to myself." He laughs his great, booming laugh, and wipes away moisture from his eyes. "Spirit, it's _good_ to see you."

Jack's not sure he should enter; walking into the lean-to had been strange enough and a frost child's _place_ is outdoors, but Thaddeus looks so expectant that he doesn't want to let the man down. Gingerly he steps past the threshold, and does his best not to flinch as the door is closed behind him. _He's not trapped._ Not at all. Thaddeus' only concern is his _neighbors_.

He keeps telling himself that as he forces his bare feet to touch down upon the wooden floor.

"Look at you, child!" Thaddeus' dark eyes are filled with unabashed wonder, and his hands lift as if to emphasize his words. "Where ever did you find flowers this time of year?"

Offering a sheepish grin, Jack does his best to untangle the blossoms the Wind had jokingly braided into his hair. Pastel petals drift to the floor, and a thorn scratches his finger, causing lake water to well from the small wound. He sticks his finger in his mouth to comfort the minor pain and looks around the cabin curiously.

There's the children's beds, more familiar to him than his own, and the table Thaddeus sits at when he studies books and other assorted oddities. A cookstove squats in the corner radiating heat, and two chairs sit in front of it. And Thaddeus himself is crouched in front of a brass-bound trunk, lifting the lid and sorting through the contents hidden inside.

"Well now," the man says as he stands, dark material folded across his hands. "I see you've — mended — your cloak, and a fine job you've done of it! However... That is, Rachel had a bit of cloth left over, from making our winter coats, and I thought: No harm in making a spare. Is there?" Worry etches two lines between his brows as he unfolds his light burden. "It's yours if you want it, child."

"You made me a coat?" He steps forward, entranced, and runs the palms of his hands over the fine, soft corduroy. "I — I've never had a coat before. It's really for me?"

Thaddeus seems pleased with his reaction, and he shakes the coat gently. "Would you like to try it on? It may be a bit large on you; I guessed on the size..."

Jack nods enthusiastically as he pulls off his cloak, tossing it to the ground in a rumpled heap of dried grass and old wool and an overabundance of wildflowers. He takes the coat from Thaddeus, and at first it slips through his fingers. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth he tries again, and this time — with Thaddeus keeping a firm grip on one of the sleeves — he's able to pick it up, and put it on.

_His very own coat!_ He pinches the material between his fingers, then hastily soothes the wrinkles. He stares down at himself; stares and smiles and pulls the coat close to his sides. He looks — the same as any other boy might. "Thank you, Thaddeus! Thank you!" Unthinkingly, he lunges towards the man for a hug — and for a brief, solitary moment he can almost _feel_ him before passing through.

"Oh!" Thaddeus sits on top of the chest, and the slightest shadow of disappointment mars his pleased expression. "My. Well, I'm glad you like it, child. Truly I am. But I see I'll need to find you a new shirt as well."

Shrugging, and straightening the sleeves of his new coat _because he hadn't actually wanted to hug Thaddeus, not really_ he picks up his staff and taps the door with the crook. He can hear children playing outside in the freshly fallen snow, and he'd much rather be with them, joining in on their game. Or perhaps sitting on his bed in the lean-to, admiring his new coat.

Really, he'd rather be _anywhere_ than in front of Thaddeus, whom he _still_ doesn't want to hug. Not. one. bit. Not at all.

_Even if it looks like Thaddeus wants dearly to be able to hug him back._

~o~

_**End notes:**__ Because Jack's cloak couldn't last forever lol! And yes, this means that as long as Jack has his relic together and whole, he has no reason to fear any season. He's not going to be making blizzards in scorching summer, but he will sit in the shade of a tree going, "Oh, wow! Lookit the kids jumping rope!" There are some PMs I'd like to get done, but I'm going to nap first ^^;; And, if you happen to have PMs blocked or are reviewing anonymously, Esse can always be reached (if her e-mail client isn't once again glitching) at esse at =D_

_Beta by _Kaylessa_, to whom I'm ever so grateful! Truly, this part would have come out Thursday or Friday, but she's so wonderfully quick in getting parts back to me - I figured, I have it, I should put it up. So three cheers for _Kaylessa_!_

_Many thank yous and no-bake chocolate oatmeal cookies to _Twilight Cardmistress, Bookworm Gal, oceanlover4evr, Alana-kittychan, !A4E!, Cindar, myrddin767, RandomKrazyPerson, Anne Camp, Crystal Peak, hisokauzumaki, Clio Ying, Alaia Skyhawk, hi, Nefarious Seraph 13, Kaylessa, whylime, Fumus000, Yue Hikari, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Redemmo, chaoticcalm , ForeverWillEnd, etherealloveliness, DragonsFlame117, Dragowolf,_ and _bookworm_ for their reviews ^_^ Huggles to you all! I hope everyone's recovered nicely from New Years - now which holiday do we have to look forward to?_


	35. name

In The Silence

~35~

Rachel is once again visiting her sister, but Teddy and Sarah are stuck inside the cabin, away from the fresh snow he'd left overnight. They sit at the table with their father, and Jack sits inside on the window sill because there are _no_ children outside to play with — and it makes Thaddeus ridiculously happy having him nearby. Jack thinks it might not be entirely right, the man's happiness with Jack when his own children are before him, but having witnessed far too many scuffles between the brother and sister, he understands. He _thinks_ he understands — but at other times he's not as sure, and its during those times he visits other towns up and down the river.

The children's heads are bent over books and Sarah's hand moves as she writes on a slate, the same pattern, over and again as her tongue pokes out from between her lips as proof of her concentration. Bored, he jumps from his perch and peers over her shoulder; tries to make sense of her complicated loops. It scarcely looks _fun_, but why else would she be putting so much effort into it, if it wasn't?

Thaddeus glances at him, then to his daughter's slate. "You're doing well," he tells her approvingly. "Quite well. Why don't you try the next letter?"

"Yes Papa," the little girl sighs as she wipes the slate clean with the edge of her sleeve, and the man's approval changes to a grimace that she takes care not to notice. "Then can me and Teddy go outside to play?"

"Teddy and I," her brother corrects her, turning a page of the book he's been glaring at since Jack first entered the cabin. He's looked at Teddy's book already, but it's not nearly as polite as Mr. Qwerty and it hadn't returned his friendly greeting, so he doesn't blame the boy for his surliness. Teddy's book doesn't look like it wants to tell any story at all.

"Teddy," Thaddeus reproves gently, tapping his fingers against the table. "There's a difference between correcting someone to make them better, and correcting them to make _yourself_ seem better. You can both go out once you've finished today's lesson."

"Yes Papa."

He hadn't known there was a difference, but then, he's not sure anyone's ever bothered to correct him. He tries to recall, but all that comes to mind are endless hours spent beneath the surface of his lake, and he frowns. If he'd _known_ he'd someday want his memories, he wouldn't have let the water wear them away. Annoyed, he climbs back up into the window sill and frosts the glass over. If Sarah can earn praise by drawing unskilled doodles — so can he.

þ. There's something wrong with his first attempt, and then he remembers that the marking had had two bulges. ß. It's closer, but not quite right — and he quickly pulls his tongue back into his mouth because the little girl had looked _silly_ when she did it.

B. He grins, and stretches his fingers wide before filling the window with the strange, awkward shape.

B. B. B. B. B.

"Children!" There's an odd note in Thaddeus' voice, and Jack turns around to see what might be bothering the man. "You've done — well with today's lesson, and it _is_ a lovely day. Put your books away, and you may go out early."

They cheer and quickly clear the table. Teddy helps his sister into her coat before putting on his own, and they run hand in hand out the cabin door. Grinning, Jack is one step behind them when the door is unexpectedly slammed shut. Before he can _think_ he coats the wooden floor in ice, and it's begun to creep up the walls before he realizes Thaddeus has no anger on his face — only excitement.

"Child, you can read?"

Jack shakes his head slowly as he changes his grip on his staff, asking the ice to withdraw. It's a struggle, for frost wants to spread with each panicked gasp that escapes him, but as his breathing calms so too does his power. Thaddeus hadn't meant to trap him - had only wanted to ask a question... _Read?_ He's learned that reading is how adults communicate with books, an odd language they share, but it's not a skill he's grown into. _No._ He doesn't know how to read.

"No? But you were writing the letter B, there in your frost on the window."

"Writing?" Writing is a word that's tied to reading; it's a word of cramping hands and aching eyes and the nose wrinkling smell of dust and must. But it's also connected to _stories_ and _achievement_ and the faintest recollection of a man, a large shadow of a man with a voice as gold and warm as the Sleepiest sand, saying...

_That's it, Jack. Well done. Now, when you're asked to make your mark, you'll be able to write your name as fine as any clerk._

He shakes his head, trying to clear it of the — memory? How could it be a memory? The only man he's ever known is Thaddeus, and while Thaddeus calls him child, and spirit _and they both pretend they do not hear the word son that sometimes slips out_ he's never, ever known Jack's name. Hail falls to the frosted floor and he hastily wipes at his face in confusion. He's neither sad, nor happy — so why is he crying?

"Child! Child, it's okay if you can't read. I was only surprised. Very surprised; I had not known you could write in the frost..." He paces the short distance between log walls, and eventually sits back at the table, spreading wide the book Sarah had been studying. "If — if you would like, though, I would teach you. I could teach you to read."

"Teach me?" He can't help his curiosity; he _wants_ to see whatever it is that Sarah had seen in the pages of the book, so he walks up to the table and nods at Thaddeus. He's willing to give _reading_ a try — and writing is bound to be easier, since it's just another form of art.

"Okay." Thaddeus nearly glows in his happiness; cheeks red and dark eyes sparkling as his finger rests below the squiggly symbol in the book that Jack had copied with various amounts of success on the window. "This is the letter B. It represents the 'buh' sound. As in boy. Or — bowl. Buttons!"

Over the next several days Jack learns the alphabet; learns the shapes and sounds and names of the letters as he hovers over Sarah's shoulder. And the little girl at first complains about going over lessons she's already learned, but soon enough it's Jack that's grown bored for the shapes seem simple enough to make, but Thaddeus will not let him practice until after the children have left to play.

There's something so _familiar_ about some of the letters. And as Thaddeus helps Teddy find his missing mitten, Jack runs the tip of his finger over the glass, leaving behind swirling curls and straight angles. _He can do more than make his mark; fine as any clerk._

"A. A is a vowel," he mumbles, carefully crafting the letter before feathering it in frost flowers. The mitten has been found under the bed, and the young boy fidgets through a lecture on taking care of his belongings. "K. K is for key — but not coin. Because..." He draws a few butterflies and brings them to short, snowy life as he tries to recall the lesson. "Because C is sneaky! C likes to pretend it is both K, and... and S!" He nods, glad to have remembered such a tricky letter. He adds it, liking the way it looks between his A and K.

"I declare, that boy goes through more mittens in a season than the three little kittens!" Thaddeus says as he closes the cabin door. "I've tried teaching him responsibility — but I'm afraid that's something Rachel is going to have to scare into him. So, how did today's lesson go, child?"

"It went _slow_," Jack drawls, absently swinging one leg for balance from his window perch. There's something missing from his collection of letters. He _knows_ this, he does; there's supposed to be _four_ letters, and if he can write them _fine as any clerk_ it will make Thaddeus — _was it Thaddeus? The only man he's ever known is Thaddeus_ — proud. "Just because... Just... That's it!" Clapping with delight, he adds the missing letter before smiling up at the approaching man.

"My God!" Thaddeus has gone pale, and he grips the sill for support as he gazes at his window in shock. "Child..." He blinks, and a single tear makes it way down his cheek as he says in a voice that shakes with some deep emotion, "...Jack?"

"Yes! Yes, that's me!" He jumps from the ledge and dances about the room, snowflakes swirling about him in his excitement. "I did it! I did it, Thaddeus! My name, _fine as any clerk!_"

And he preens as pride fills Thaddeus' face.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ o.o Erm. Okay, I'm scanning Mr. Qwerty right now because I keep forgetting. Go see him at calicodragon dot com slash mrqwerty dot jpg ^_^_

_Many thanks to _Clio Ying, Twilight Cardmistress, Bookworm Gal, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, whylime, XxDarkSongxX, DoomCabbit, DragonsFlame117, RandomKrazyPerson, UVNight, 1valleygirl4, Rahar Moonfire, FrostFan, myrddin767, Crystal Peak, Alaia Skyhawk, Star Fata, oceanlover4evr, Alana-kittychan, Sora Moto, Anne Camp, WordsSounds, hisokauzumaki, etherealloveliness, Dragowolf, bookworm, Eternal She-Wolf, ForeverWillEnd,_ and _fourty-eight_ for their reviews! Huggles to all!_

_Umm, I so meant to get PMs out yesterday - but that didn't happen. So I'll try to answer a few questions here :)_

_Jack's old cloak: Yes, it does come back into play, somewhere around part 37-ish(?). I don't have it written yet ^^;; so I can't tell you for certain._

_Why Thaddeus can't hear Jack: We find that out Easter Sunday of 1868. It is sad. As to why Thaddeus cannot touch Jack - he's not quite enough of a wizard, nor enough of a child. There's also his belief that 'spirits' can't be touched ^^;; And with Thaddeus, his beliefs truly work against him._

_Jack's new coat: Is not a hoodie ^o^ I'll try my best to get a description of it put together. When _does_ Jack get his hoodie? -cough Easter Sunday 1968 cough-_

ForeverWillEnd:_ Huge huggles! I'd love to see any art you'd like to share! But if the picture doesn't work out for you, that's okay too =)_

fourty-eight:_ I've tried to be careful with what Jack can and cannot touch. So far he's only really been able to sorta tug at things. He can hold his staff, and he can hold the chain. With Thaddeus' help he was able to accept the coat (and now it's much more in his reality than the mere mundane mortal realm). The more an item is the work of man as opposed to nature, the less chance Jack has of interacting with it._


	36. footprint

In The Silence

~36~

Jack loves books, even if they're dull, stolid things compared to Mr. Qwerty. They're full of stories; wonderful tales of adventure and daring — and he can _read_ them whenever he wants to instead of waiting pressed close to windows for parents to tell them to children as they're tucked into their beds for the night. Although that, too, is still enjoyable. And, he can't _always_ read when he wants to; Rachel must be out of the house, as well as the children, and as winter stretches on his opportunities for reading dwindle. Teddy and Sarah might go out for hours on end, but Rachel has taken to sitting in her rocking chair knitting, and _glowering_ at her husband as he aimlessly pages through books.

They argue occasionally, Rachel and Thaddeus, and Jack will leave for days at a time — but the lure of reading draws him back. They argue about small things; over cleaning, and mending, and Teddy's _attitude_ which, according to his mother, isn't as respectful as it should be. They argue about large things; over supplies, and Rachel's family, and — Phillip. They argue — but it's not _really_ arguing, Jack thinks, so much as Rachel complaining and Thaddeus huddling down in his chair at the table, smaller and smaller until it seems he might disappear entirely within the dark material of his coat.

And Thaddeus will leave, as Jack leaves, to attend to chores and duties and neighborly obligations, and on much rarer occasions Rachel will exit the cabin to visit with her sister — but it still allows too many hours free each day. The children bustle outside to play after study, and Thaddeus pretends to read, but the pages are always turned to Jack's next lesson. And Rachel rocks in her chair, her hands busy with make-work tasks and her eyes darkened by the thoughts that haunt her — until she opens her mouth and lets accusations run across her tongue.

They argue until, one long, listless day, Rachel can no longer bear her husband's quiet lunacy — and she snaps as he walks into the cabin and holds the door open for the apparition his grieving mind has cursed him with. "Enough, Thaddeus! Enough! Do you think I do not know of your delusions? You're spending your time teaching a ghost to read! It's the talk of the settlement! I've tried to be understanding, to give you time — but how long will you continue with this charade? The children deserve better than a mad man for a father!"

Jack spins to fly out of the cabin, but Thaddeus has already closed the door. With a watery sigh he climbs atop his staff, and wishes he'd never entered. Even if Thaddeus _had_ promised that they would start on a new book — a story isn't adequate compensation for being stuck in the same room as Rachel when she's angry. And lately _nothing_ makes her angrier than the time Thaddeus spends with him.

"Rachel! Jack is real, as real as you or I. He pulled Teddy from the fire—"

"Jack? _Jack_ is it now?" She's up from her chair, her shawl left in an untidy heap behind her, and she's slamming books closed with little regard for how precious they are. "'Twas bad enough believing it was Phillip you're seeing — but some stranger? Lord, give me strength; I know of the coat you made, and I wondered at its size when Phillip was near a man grown. Where is it, Thaddeus? Need I fear going out into the woods and finding some straw manikin dressed in our child's clothes?"

Jack doesn't think he should be inside for this conversation; he thinks that across the ocean might be too _close_ to Rachel's anger — and it's been a while since he last visited the island of Sleepy Sands. He could go and help Sandman, and sing with the mermaids, and be anywhere but _here_ for the next couple of years, if only Thaddeus would open the cabin door and let him flee. Or there's a promising crack near the roof that he might slip through — or not, he concedes, as he's unable to shove more than two fingers between the logs.

Thaddeus, though, is shaking his head as he stares up at him, and his fingers are beckoning him down. Jack _doesn't_ want to be in the cabin, but although the spell that had tethered him to the man is long since broken, he feels a need to _humor_ Thaddeus. _Not obey._ Not that. Thaddeus only ever asks — and he likes doing small favors for the man. Except... getting anywhere near Rachel while her hands are fisted and her mouth twisted into a bitter, hurting line is a frightening prospect, especially since _he's_ the one she's furious with.

_If he'd only left, and never returned — they wouldn't be fighting._

"He's real, Rachel — perhaps more so than either of us, he's _real_." There's fierce determination on the man's face as he moves towards the corner of the cabin set up as a pantry. "I can prove it."

"Yeah. Good luck with that," Jack murmurs from his position by the door. He's hoping the kids will be home soon; hoping Teddy will throw the door open wide — and he'll leave. His being here has caused _harm_, he sees that now; while he'll miss Thaddeus, it will be for the best. The man might miss him in return, maybe, _perhaps_, but if there's one thing he's learned in all his many years of playing, it's that a frost child leaves no impression behind.

Reaching deeply into a gunny sack, Thaddeus pulls out a handful of coarsely ground flour and, ignoring his wife's yelped protest, he tosses it across the cabin's wooden floor. "Jack, would you mind stepping down for a moment?" he asks, catching Rachel's upraised hand before it has a chance to land across his cheek.

_Thaddeus has truly lost his mind,_ is Jack's thought as he shakes his head in denial. But there's a pleading, desperate slant to the man's eyebrows, so with a shrug Jack lands on the floor staff first before taking three small, quick steps. Three inconsequential steps for a snowflake — but what snowflake has ever greeted summer? What snowflake wears flowers in its hair and a sturdy corduroy coat on its shoulders?

_What snowflake leaves footprints?_

"Lord, save us!" Rachel shrieks as his footsteps appear, and Thaddeus catches her before she can fall to the floor. "There's something in the cabin!"

Rachel may be near to fainting, but Jack's attention is caught by something _far_ more important. "Thaddeus! Thaddeus, _look_!" he calls out, clapping with excitement. He's leaving footprints! Incredibly faint footsteps in the dusting of flour, but they're _his_. With rising glee he dances across the floor, twirling around his staff before rising into the air to admire the pattern, and snow drifts gently down to fill in the impressions of a child's bare feet. He laughs with delight and the Wind, locked outside the cabin, hears and bangs at the shutters, demanding to be let in to see what all the commotion's about.

"A — a priest. Fetch a priest, Thaddeus! Some accursed spirit has made its way into our home." But her fear becomes tinged with outrage as the arms holding her upright tremble in withheld mirth. "Our Bible, man! _Do something!_"

"Rachel. _Rachel_, my heart," Thaddeus rumbles in her ear. "There's no reason to fear. It's only Jack, as I've told you." His voice is low — almost too low to hear. _Almost._ "Just a poor, lonely winter child. Remember the graves? Once upon a time, he had parents that must have loved him very much. Don't ask me _how_ he is here. He just _is_. And he saved our son from the flames, Rachel. You should _see_ him. Every winter, playing with Sarah and Teddy..."

His excitement dimming at Thaddeus' words, Jack pouts and spreads frost across the disturbed layer of flour. "You talk as if I'm dead or something." He can't, however, maintain his scowl and it's gone as quickly as it came as he skips across the floor, spinning around to admire the fresh prints he's left behind in the rapidly melting ice. "I've told you before: I've never been in the ground. Just the lake."

Reaching for her chair, Rachel sits and pulls her shawl up around her shoulders to block out the sudden chill permeating the cabin. "Playing with our children. Our children! And — and was it _him_, Thaddeus? The child you heard crying in the blizzard our first winter here? The storm that nearly killed us? _Was it him?_"

"I said I was sorry," Jack says softly, and his melting footprints are no longer quite as wonderful. "I've done my best to make it up to you..."

Sitting as well, Thaddeus glances from Jack to his wife before rubbing wearily at his face. "S'truth, Rachel? It may have been. It likely was. But I can tell you — I hurt him far worse than he hurt us. I nearly destroyed him, and yet he still rescued Teddy. Won't you give him a chance, Rachel?"

"A chance?" she huffs, picking up her knitting needles and jabbing them roughly into the balled yarn. "You want me to give your ghost boy a _chance_?" Her voice is outraged, but there's a twinkle set deep within her eyes. Rachel may have been pragmatic, but she'd dared fall in love with a man that heard voices in the wind and honestly believed a giant rabbit went about hiding prettily painted eggs in the forest each spring. "My floor is covered in floury muck. Talk to me again about chances once my floor is _clean_, husband."

"Of course, my heart."

Jack doesn't understand. Doesn't know how Rachel could be so angry one moment then calmly knitting the next. Doesn't know why Thaddeus is grinning as he's reaching down a pot in preparation of gathering snow to melt upon the stove. Doesn't know if he should _go_ the moment the door to the cabin opens — but he wants to stay. He'd _like_ to stay.

So instead of flinging himself upon the Wind he asks for its help instead, and between its forceful gusts and the grittiness of the fine, dry snow the tiniest scrap of his shadow provides, they scour the cabin's floor clean.

Rachel watches with wide, disbelieving eyes as the Wind sweeps the mess out the door. She opens her mouth, but it takes several tries before her lips will form the words.

"—Thank you. Jack."

Pleased with his handiwork, Jack climbs back up to his customary place by the window.

[YoR wElKom]

She blinks, once, then bursts into giggles that sound just as young and carefree as her daughter's. "Taught him to write as well, Thaddeus? Saints preserve us. The neighbors will be calling in the priest for the lot of us!" She wipes at her streaming eyes with the soft ends of her shawl. "Teach him how to spell, man! I'll have no child in this house, ghost or not, with spelling that atrocious!"

And although Jack's lessons are frosted over by the time Sarah and Teddy return home, Rachel's laughter lingers on well into the night.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Ooo, part is getting out late today ^^;; Terribly sorry! And I'm afraid I don't have time to answer any questions... o.o Very sorry about that as well. And it looks like there's less than a 10% chance of getting part 37 out tomorrow, but hopefully I'll have it up for you by Sunday ^_^ Huggles to all for your patience! (And if you have no patience, at least I've got your arms pulled down in the Huggle-GLOMP of Doom!)_

_Many glad-happy-joyful thanks to _Bookworm Gal, whylime, RandomKrazyPerson, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Clio Ying, Alaia Skyhawk, louisepostlethwaite, UVNight, Twilight Cardmistress, Anne Camp, Yue Hikari, blackkyu, myrddin767, ForeverWillEnd, hi, oceanlover4evr, Rahar Moonfire, Crystal Peak, Hannah, Mananai, bookworm, Fumus000, CrazyLife247, ellaail, lurkerlaine, Alana-kittychan, etherealloveliness, FyreFlyte, Dragowolf, Nefarious Seraph 13, !A4E!_ and _fourty-eight_ for their reviews. Thank you so very much! I deeply appreciate (and whoop and holler) over each and every one._


	37. project

In The Silence

~37~

Rachel watches him; always watches him from whatever tasks keep her hands occupied but her mind free to wander. Well, she doesn't watch _him_, can hardly _watch_ him, but she has an uncanny ability to track him across the room. Her eyes immediately lock on the window whenever he practices his writing; they follow the occasional snowflake that drifts in his passing. Her attention latches on to the smallest tracing of frost that escapes his notice — and he knows that _he_ never escapes her notice. Rachel may not be able to see him, but somehow, someway, she always knows when he's there.

She acts as though it's become her duty, her constant observation of him, until it feels as if he daren't play the slightest trick in fear of gaining the less benevolent side of Rachel's attention. She sets him lessons and drives Thaddeus away from the cabin, for she says her husband has neglected his chores long enough. The man looks as if he would argue — if it wasn't _Rachel_ before him with her stern face and no-nonsense hands that are constantly, constantly busy. Thaddeus _doesn't_ argue, and instead goes out to do _chores_ which, Jack thinks, consist far more of helping Teddy and Sarah and the neighboring children play than they do any sort of _honest_ work.

That's a phrase of Rachel's: Honest work. And Jack thinks there's very little that qualifies as such in Rachel's world. And while the woman may think him a ghost, some wayward spirit with little regard for rules or righteous behavior, it doesn't exclude him from her considering gaze — and he's somewhat terrified that she now considers him a _project_ in need of her guidance.

He's certainly become the focus of her undivided attention as she churns pale, winter cream into butter.

"Jack," she says, between puffing breaths as she moves the butter dash up and down. "Thaddeus says we have you to thank for the snow that's extended the sugaring." She doesn't, however, thank him. Rachel, he's come to learn, doesn't think gratitude need be expressed for what _she_ considers simple duty. It doesn't stop her from blushing a vibrant pink, though, when her husband praises a particularly fine meal. "He also says you leave each spring." She inspects the cream-splashed dash, then with a scowl sits down in her rocking chair. "Pah. It'll keep. Tell me: Where do you go? I somewhat _doubt_ you were ever granted passage to Heaven."

Rachel talks often of Heaven; of love and peace everlasting, and he'd _thought_ she might have been describing the island of Sleepy Sands but when he'd drawn pictures of mermaids and marching shells she'd frowned an odd, twisted frown with doubt lingering in the corners of her down turned lips — and she had never outright _asked_ him about it again.

_Phillip is in Heaven,_ is what Thaddeus says when Rachel withdraws and struggles with ideas too great for words. And he's never met Phillip, so Jack supposes Rachel's Heaven is one of those places the Wind dares not take him. It sounds nice enough, he supposes — if a bit boring. Thaddeus says Heaven is where a person goes, after they die... and there's a hopefulness about the man's eyes when he says it, so Jack doesn't bother to correct him. Jack's children, after all, are still playing in the snow — just beyond his reach — although sometimes he joins them when he's asleep atop Sandman's cloud.

So where does he go, when spring bursts forth? He considers her question, gladly abandoning the repetitious task of copying words he'd misspelled when Rachel had quizzed him earlier. [South] he writes in new, sparkling frost across the window. [We follow winter]

"We?" Rachel asks as her hands darn a sock, but she's interrupted before she can question further.

"Goodness!" Thaddeus steps into the cabin in a swirl of frigid Wind, and Jack gladly greets his old friend with outspread fingers and his new friend with a mischievous grin. "I had to empty all the buckets, and Michael is keeping close watch on the kettle. We'll have maple sugar well into next year, thanks to Jack."

"We _used_ to thank the Lord for his Providence, husband," Rachel chides mildly as her rocking picks up speed. "I just — I'm just not sure if it's proper, inviting a spirit into our home..."

"It's not," Jack assures her, as always unheard. "It never feels quite right; a pressure against my ears as if I'm back at the bottom of my lake. I'd rather be playing outside, but as you've told me," he swings his feet and somewhat spitefully frosts over the slate left out on the table, "the books aren't going to read themselves. —Although they should. Mr. Qwerty doesn't seem to have a problem with it. **I** think it's that you have nothing but rude, snobbish books. Even if some of them _do_ have fun stories."

"Rachel..." With a sigh Thaddeus sits; the snow dusting his coat melts in the heat cast by the stove, leaving ever-widening blotches across his shoulders. "Might we discuss this later? Jack will likely be leaving in a few days, regardless."

There's another argument taking shape between the two adults; a darkening in the air that they fail to notice — but Jack does. He's grown to know this shadow that is no shadow; it feeds on expectations that fail to match and the lingering fear Rachel drapes about herself the same as she does her shawl. He's spent the winter in the company of this shadow; as he's learned to read; as he's listened to the bedtime stories told to the children; as he does his best to help Rachel in her housework. He's weary of the shadow — and it's past time for him to leave.

[I go now] he scrawls across the window before swinging his staff over his shoulder. He'd only stayed as long as he had because Thaddeus had specifically asked for the extra snow, and the Wind's been growing impatient, eager to move on. Truthfully — he has, too, but each time he'd readied himself to leave Thaddeus had asked another favor. And another. And while Jack is happy to welcome spring's tentative advances, he _needs_ to move on.

"Wait, Jack! A minute..." Thaddeus stands, a flush staining his cheeks that could either be embarrassment or the heat of the room after the chill of outside. "I've been meaning, that is... Rachel, my heart; do you recall my mentioning Jack's need of a new shirt?"

She sucks at her bottom lip as she sets aside her sewing; stares at the warming butter churn before turning her jaded gaze upon her husband. "You did indeed comment upon your _ghost's_ ragged wardrobe. Really, Thaddeus? We've already lost a good coat Teddy would have grown into. What _need_ would a spirit have for earthly raiment?"

Nodding as though in agreement, Thaddeus opens the brass-bound chest at the foot of their bed and pulls from the bottom a paper-wrapped bundle. "What need indeed," he tells his wife, unknotting the string binding the paper closed and setting the soft, flower-scented keepsake in Rachel's lap. "He left his cloak in return for the coat, my heart. Can you look at it and tell me you still have doubts?"

"Oh. My." Unfolding the tattered cloak, Rachel spreads it across her lap and over the arms of her chair; worn, frazzled brown wool and bright gold dried grasses and spring flowers _in full bloom_ at the end of winter. Her hands, her busy, working hands, rest upon _living_ petals and leaves before lifting, covered in a dusting of pollen. "_Incorruptible_... Thaddeus?" Her unasked question cracks her voice, as a lilac bloom drifting to the floor cracks the sternness masking her face.

"As I said. Jack's — a good boy. Surely we can spare the worth of a shirt for him."

Her pollen-streaked hand is held to her mouth as she blinks back a sheen of tears, and determination is once again hardening her features — but there's an underlying softness that will never fully go away. "I — I will need your help, husband. Fetch my measuring tape."

Jack is confused as Rachel bombards him with requests, and Thaddeus holds an ink-streaked ribbon in various positions in front of him. He's told to hold his arms out to the sides, and in his nervousness he accidentally ices over the cook stove. "I — I'm sorry," he stammers while drawing back the frost, but Thaddeus is grinning, and though Rachel raises one eyebrow she does her best not to notice the frostmelt now coating her floor.

Finally Rachel is satisfied with her mystifying task, and she nods at Thaddeus who opens the cabin door. "Jack," she calls out, and he pauses with one foot sinking ever so slightly into the glistening snow beyond the threshold. "Your shirt will be ready, come next winter. And we'll continue your lessons then."

"Okay..." Gulping, he calls the Wind and together they rise high above the small settlement. Jack had thought he might leave for a while; a few years spent wandering from town to city to isolated homestead before returning to Thaddeus and his family. A few years to think things through. A few years to find answers to questions he'd never before had. But _Rachel_ was expecting him back, next winter. _Rachel_ was making him a shirt.

_He'd far rather face down Pitch by himself, than have Rachel's disappointment directed his way._

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Okay, I suppose I've gots some e'splaining to do =D Here in my head (please don't mind the bats, they're only hanging around for ambiance) I've got this lovely idea that Jack's sphere of immortal influence extends somewhat to _anything_ that stays in close proximity to him. It's why his cloak is only tattered after almost a century of constant use _and spending several years at the bottom of a lake _lol! Otherwise the poor boy would be needing clothes yearly — or at least every other year given the way he plays. And the flowers the Wind had given him also fell under the influence — only _more_ so since they were still living at the time._

_Here's where we get into sticky theological waters. Esse's Thaddeus is Orthodox, although his family has, erm, _stretched_ their beliefs a bit, considering it's a whole family of untrained partial wizards. (And the whole reason Esse thinks this is because Thaddeus is a name of Greek derivation and her rather flimsy notion that the Russias are a refuge for all the poor straggling castaways of Atlantis. It's not meant to make sense ^^;; ) And Rachel comes from a Catholic family (and for the sake of convenience we'll assume she did indeed get her Bishop's permission to marry in an Orthodox church, otherwise they'd be completely cast out — and that would just be sad o.o ). Is it a marriage the community embraced with open, loving arms? Uh, no. Hence the need for them to eventually up and move far far far away._

_Now, to the point of this whole rambling mess: Both the Orthodox and Catholic faiths have the concept of incorruptibility. Bodies that do not decay, usually of saints. And in the most extreme cases, neither do the clothes of the individual — nor do the flowers buried with them (although this is exceedingly rare). So here is the great misunderstanding of Thaddeus and Rachel ^^;; And if Jack ever figures out _what_ they're thinking, he's going to laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh._

_Saint Jack, indeed. And I mean no offense to anyone of either the Orthodox or Catholic faiths. I only include this because Thaddeus and his wife are doing their best to understand the phenomena that is Jack with the only means at their disposal at the time. _

_Many thanks to _Twilight Cardmistress, farfetched4, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, AnnLuc, snowecat, myrddin767, Yue Hikari, Bookworm Gal, lurkerlaine, Eternal She-Wolf, oceanlover4evr, Alana-kittychan, Alaia Skyhawk, RandomKrazyPerson, DoomCabbit, whylime, hisokauzumaki, ellaail, Emminyan, Zalein, Dragowolf, UVNight, 1valleygirl4, Breezyfeather, blackkyu, Anne Camp, savedbygrace94, PencilandPaperfriendly, DragonsFlame117, CrazyLife247, Asteren, Clio Ying, bookworm, fourty-eight, Mananai, Crystal Peak, Sora Moto, PuppetMaster55, freedomtoaster, Smoochynose_ and _Notes_ for their reviews! Thank you so much for your patience! Here, have a hug! _

_~And..._

Crystal Peak:_ Lucky 7s! That's right, yours was the 777th review. Have you a drabble you'd like to request?_


	38. gift

In The Silence

~38~

"Whoa." Below his feet there's a village. Not a single homestead pushing the boundaries of the country's frontier; not a small gathering of cabins joined together to survive far away from the outposts of civilization — but a village. And although it's several miles away from the original site, as well as being pressed up against the river as an elegant lady might recline upon a settee, it looks enough like _his_ village that he needs to rub away the ache that's formed underneath Snowflake, right above his heart. He's only been gone a turning of seasons — but so much has changed.

He needs to visit his children. His very _first_ children. He needs to make sure they're okay, so he asks the Wind if it would mind stopping in the singing stone's clearing. And the Wind doesn't mind, not at all — for the Wind, too, has fond memories of its frost child's village, and the general of winter whose stolen muffler had taught it the meaning of compassion.

The Wind lets Jack know, it was no _small_ thing. Always before, for years and centuries and countless time before the current stars shone overhead, the Wind had cared not if its presence affected others. In fact, it had all seemed a game to do its best to knock down what man had dared put up. But Jack's terror had taught it a lesson it will not ever forget. Life is precious. Life is fragile. And a frost child _loves_ the children he plays with, cannot help but love them, the same as the Wind loves its frost child.

Must they go back to Thaddeus? the Wind wants to know. It doesn't like its child inside the cabin, away from its reach. It doesn't like sharing Jack with others at all. Unless, of course, the other is a moonbeam. Or an astral child. Then... then it doesn't mind as much; it only seems right that Jack should play with others of light. It knows that much of families.

"I think — we need to return to Thaddeus," he tells the Wind, as he alights atop the singing stone. The clearing is _tended_, he notices. Weeds have been pulled and bushes planted, and where once there were wooden monuments there are now stones. Stones like the ones he had shattered so very many years ago. And there is a fence of sturdy branches and split logs separating the clearing from the forest beyond — and a path that leads back down to the new village, with a gate decorated in dried flowers and evergreen boughs.

It's pretty, the remnants of spring's adornments and the fragrant branches of winter woven together. It's even prettier covered in frost. He runs his hand across the surface of the singing stone — and recognizes letters. "It's a poem," he murmurs before reading it out loud.

The Wind doesn't know much about poetry, but it likes the cadence of the words and swirls about Jack approvingly as he finishes reading. "Do you think my children will play always?" Jack asks his friend as they leave the clearing. "Because... I wonder, sometimes. I wonder what they're doing, when I'm not there to play with them..."

He thinks there's no answer to that particular question; he's heard both Thaddeus and Rachel wondering the same thing. Even little Sarah, tucked away in her tiny home of snow piled up in the yard, had once asked her doll of rag and yarn if it thought Phillip happy being so far away from kith and kin. Her tears had steamed in the frigid air, and no amount of shimmering snowflakes sent dancing about her head by Jack could coax from her a smile that day.

Jack bids goodbye to the Wind at the outskirts of the village, for it doesn't want to witness his reunion with the family that's stolen away so much of his time. And he'd like to reassure the Wind that it's still his best friend — his first friend — but the Wind is too busy grumbling to itself to hear his soft words. With a shrug and the beginnings of a grin he throws his arms around the Wind in a spectacular tackle and laughs as it tries to buck him off.

"Stop being silly," he says as he's thrown — lightly, gently, with utmost consideration — into a soft bank of snow. "I've got this reading thing down now. Lessons shouldn't take nearly as long. I mean, what more could Rachel possibly want to teach me?"

The Wind pauses, then reluctantly agrees. What could conceivably be left to learn after an entire season's study?

"Exactly," Jack nods as he uses his staff to pull himself from the drift. The Wind tugs at his hair as it blows out of the village, and Jack turns around and about again, amazed at the differences a season away has wrought. "Wow..." There's the handful of cabins from last winter and another handful as well. There are houses of milled lumber standing stately and proud — and there's the humble beginnings of a building of brick, red peeking out from the whiteness of snow.

With an agile jump he lands on the window sill of Thaddeus' cabin — but it doesn't _feel_ right. He doesn't need to peer through the glass; he knows he has no invitation to _this_ house. Somewhat disturbed and in complete denial over the panic tightening his chest he frosts the window and moves on to the next cabin. And the next. It's not until he's hanging from the shutters of one of the newly built houses, its wood fresh-smelling and golden beneath spreading ice, that he gets the feather-tickle sensation of _home_ and _his_.

And he very, very carefully makes sure that he doesn't switch the words around, especially not in the depths of his mind — for he is a frost child, and the building of pine and perfectly clear glass is not. his. home. _Even if it's telling him welcome welcome welcome._ And Thaddeus isn't his... His. And neither is Rachel. Although Teddy and Sarah most definitely _are_.

_For all children he plays with are his._

"...Jack?" Rachel is standing in the house's open doorway, her eyes wide and darting while her voice is barely a whisper. "I saw the frost at the window. Is it you, child? Have you returned?"

Rachel cannot see him. Neither can she hear him. But she always seems to _know_ when he's around, as if she's trained herself to be overly aware of the gentler overtures of winter. "It's me," he tells her as he tugs at the fluttering edges of her shawl, and with purpose walks in front of her with painstaking care, leaving behind perfect imperfections hardly deeper than a snowflake of a youth's bare feet upon the snow's icy crust. "I do hope the summer was kind to you; but if not — _I'm_ here now."

"Ah." She smiles a quiet, secretive smile at the footprints, and beckons him inside. "I wasn't sure how much trouble you'd have finding the house. The village has certainly grown, hasn't it?" She shuts the door while giggling behind an upraised hand. "Oh, you should have been here to see Thaddeus' embarrassment, Jack. A meeting was held with all the new families that have moved to the valley — and it was unanimously agreed to name the town Burgess."

Her smile is beatific, but he's unsure of the reason behind it. With a careless wave of his staff he covers the window in frost, then forms a single mark in question.

She giggles again as a rosy blush stains her cheeks. "Well, that certainly shows me the error of pride! Our last name, Jack. Thaddeus' family name is Burgess. The town is named after him. Can you imagine? We came here to get away from the bustle of the city — and before we knew it, the city had come to us."

He grins widely and claps, sending snowflakes spinning through the air. He _knows_ Thaddeus, as well as he can know any adult — and the man must be _mortified_ at the attention. [He is very important man] he scrawls, and laughs along with Rachel as she fixes herself a cup of tea. [You are all well?]

"As well as can be expected," Rachel says as she sips from the steaming cup. "It's — a bit unnerving, having so many new people about. Last year it was mostly family, or friends that Thaddeus invited to join us. Now, there are folk that are practically strangers, and they've brought a preacher with them that, well..." Setting her teacup aside, she kneels before the brass bound chest, though it no longer sits at the foot of any bed but instead rests abutted to an interior wall. "It's nothing that would interest you, child. Instead, give me your opinion on these."

From the chest Rachel pulls out a carefully stored bundle of fabric that unfolds to display trousers made from a dark brown linsey-woolsey and a shirt of fine, white cotton with mother of pearl buttons running along the front. "What do you think, Jack?" she asks, holding the shirt up in display. "I used the measurements Thaddeus gave me last winter; he assured me that I needn't fear you having a growth spurt." She blushes again, and ducks her head shyly. "I did worry, you know. Oh, Thaddeus laughed at the idea of a spirit-child growing up... But what _spirit_ would need new clothes? Are — are they to your liking?"

They're _beautiful_, all the more so because Rachel has made them for him — but Jack cannot _hold_ them. He tries, but the most he can do is tug on edges, and he stops after the second attempt, unable to bear the thought of the new, wonderful clothes being dropped to the floor. Rachel's lovely blush is fading while the corners of her mouth turn down, and Jack knows he is the cause of her emerging frown. She must think he doesn't like the clothes — doesn't _appreciate_ her time-consuming labor — but that couldn't be further from the truth.

With speed that causes a draft to whip about the edges of the cotton shirt, Jack dashes towards the window and begins writing as quickly as he can. [I love them Thank you Rachel! Need Thaddeus to give] His lettering is sloppy, but there's a tremble in his hand he cannot control — and afraid of disappointing Rachel further with his awful penmanship he quickly frosts back over the window for a second attempt. [Pretty buttons Rachel Thaddeus] but his writing is nearly illegible, and he rubs at his eyes angrily before summoning frost again.

"Jack! Jack, child... it's all right." He turns to look at her, and her fond smile stills the shaking of his hands. "I do believe I understand. It's Thaddeus that needs to give them to you, isn't it?" There's a chuckle lurking under her breath, and it escapes as she refolds the shirt. "I might have expected. Suspected. My mother was wont to warn me about that man; strange, inexplicable things happened around the Burgess family; it was the talk of the city."

Her chuckle turns rueful, but it in no way mars the peacefulness of her expression. "It's why we _left_ the city. But I haven't regretted my choice yet. Well," she gives a quick roll of her eyes as she places the clothing back in the trunk, "not for _long_ at any rate. Every woman should have a chance for magic in her life..."

She stands briskly and picks back up her teacup though the tea within has long since gone cold. "Well. Thaddeus should be back shortly, but now that I think on it, would you mind terribly waiting until tomorrow for your clothing?" Rachel smiles her sweet, secretive smile into the brim of the teacup.

"I don't mind," he says — although his fingers _itch_ to play with the beautiful, rainbow-clouded buttons.

She swallows icy tea, and nods as though she could hear his answer. "I don't imagine you'd mind. Every child should have a present or two on Sinterklaas."

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Yay for a firm date! This part specifically took place December 4, 1798 ^_^ since Saint Nicholas' eve (12-5) is when the gifts are handed out. I find it perfectly feasible that Thaddeus and his family celebrate both Christmas and the yearly arrival of Sinterklaas (thanks to the large number of Dutch communities in Pennsylvania — who wouldn't adopt another gift-giving holiday? And if their neighbors are celebrating, why by gum, they're gonna party hearty too!). However, it's just slightly too early for there to be much expectation of Santa coming on the 25th... although Nick is starting to get about ^_~ I've got a reference to Santa Claus in 1809, so if you take into account that it might have taken a generation for Nicholas to get himself established, the time-line works. Sorta. Kinda. Pshaw and gimme presents!_

_kith: one's friends and acquaintances (especially in the phrase kith and kin)_

Kaylessa_ rocks! Not only did she beta, go look at fanart! Yay yip ki yiddles for fanart!_

_mormongirlbyu dot deviantart dot com slash gallery slash ?catpath=scraps# slash d5qsaku_

_Go look, and cheer, because it is fabulous!_

_Many thank yous and snickerdoodles to _Alaia Skyhawk, Breezyfeather, Smoochynose, myrddin767, oceanlover4evr, Rahar Moonfire, gh0st' .Machine, UVNight, Kaylessa, bit-of-a-dork, Alana-kittychan, DragonflyonBreak, Crystal Peak, Bookworm Gal, Clio Ying, Mananai, RandomKrazyPerson, Yue Hikari, hisokauzumaki, Cindar, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Eternal She-Wolf, hi, 1valleygirl4, blackkyu, Anne Camp, ellaail, DragonsFlame117, fourty-eight, ForeverWillEnd, Emminyan, Dragowolf, bookworm_ and _Rachelle Lo_ for their reviews! Huggles and more snickerdoodles! Which I suppose are better than pelting you with Labradoodles? Although I suppose I could try handing those out instead..._

_I'm sorry to say it will be several days before the next part comes out. I'm terribly sorry, but I just haven't had time to think, let alone write. But I will update, and have no intention of abandoning this story! It will just be, like, Friday before I can get you the next part. (If I can finish sooner, though, I will post sooner. Just wanted to give you all a head's up.)_

Anne Camp:_ XD That's exactly what it was based on! Y'know, I prolly have around 800 hours invested in different saves for ffvii — and I never managed Lucky 7s._

1valleygirl4:_ Okay, I'll answer here, since a few people were curious as to why Rachel couldn't see Jack. I figure a child's (and wizard's) belief is fundamentally different from an adult's. Really, I believe in Santa — but I'm certainly not going to be able to see him. Think of it this way; if all of the Guardians' believers could keep seeing the guardians, they wouldn't really ever stop believing, would they? I know other authors address this by saying the cares of the world slowly erode away a child's belief as they grow, but I'm going in a different direction. As a child ages, their belief changes, like wavelengths or something, to where even though they believe — they can't _see_. Now, before I'm jumped on by people going, "Wai! Does that mean Jamie will stop seeing Jack?" I will point out that Burgess, after being a city for over 200 years, is full up of Thaddeus' descendants. =D_

Crystal Peak:_ Well, your request was a bit of a sticky wicket ^^;; Since, going by canon, Tooth never met Jack before the movie, period. (She hasn't been out tooth collecting for 440 years, give or take [even if his teeth are all teh sparkles!].) Hopefully you'll enjoy this, instead ^_^ Hey, it's Tooth! Or... Toothiana slowly becoming Tooth..._

~o~

She wasn't quite used to it, yet. Wasn't _used_ to so much of her _self_ being — no longer her _self_. It wasn't like when she'd split into six smaller _selfs_; then, they'd all been her, and though keeping track of her _selfs_ had left her feeling headachy and nauseated when she'd reformed — it's _impossible_ for her to incorporate any of the _thousands_ she'd become.

She wasn't used to seeing Punjam Hy Loo damaged, but that was slowly changing. Both the way she viewed the city — and the repairs her _selfs_ were making. The monkey army had nearly brought the city low, but there was still something wondrous about Punjam Hy Loo, something _waiting_ and expectant... And with so many of her _selfs_ flitting about, the city almost exuded a feeling of — life. As if, against all expectations, the Sisters of Flight once again flew through their city's high paths. Punjam Hy Loo _knew_, oh it _knew_ its daughters had come home.

She wasn't used to collecting teeth from every corner of the world; the sudden _scope_ frightened her at times, and at other times brushed her lightly with the slightest graying of despair. But she was a multitude, and her _selfs_ handled the workload as if it were nothing.

_No, not nothing — but as some natural thing. Some job finally being fully accomplished._

Toothiana's _selfs_ were no longer _herself_, although she maintained ties to them all. They were _individuals_, but each and every one had taken some trait from her. Some facet. Some shared her ethics. Some her morality. A few her fierceness in protecting the world's children. And one, a single _singularity_ amongst so much _self_ness, with her unusual, mismatched eyes, had a trait that Toothiana herself has almost lost over the course of time. One eye, her blue eye, saw the world as it was in all its imperfection. Her other eye, though — her eye the color of lilacs freshly bloomed — saw only the wondrous _possibilities_ the world contained. Saw where joy might spread, where goodness might take root; _saw_ light where others might see naught but disappointment.

As days spread into months, into years, Toothiana occasionally envied her smallest, singular _self_ the ability.

Today, though, she was flustered and overworked, for she was behind schedule, and her smallest _self_ was caught up in an impossibility seen by her lilac eye.

"What do you mean?" Toothiana asked her _self_ hovering before her. "It's just a tooth; it shouldn't be too heavy to move! Let alone too cold, or too bright."

Her self _twittered_ in a blurring sing-song; her _selfs_ found the language of the Sisters of Flight far easier to speak than any human tongue, and Toothiana found it far easier to understand.

"Look, I can understand being afraid to go so far out by yourself; you should have just said so, instead of making up this story of an uncollectible tooth!"

Her self squeaked in outrage, and darted through the air in a brilliant flash of blues and greens and gold.

"I don't — I don't have time for this. Look. Take whomever you need to help on this, this unbelievably heavy tooth. Then bring it directly to me. I'd like to _see_ this molar."

She wasn't _used_ to her selfs acting on their own, or having their own fears — or their own _lives_ so completely separate from her own. She wasn't used to it, but it was getting easier. So Toothiana's thoughts were far, far away from the matter of her smallest _self's_ duty when a swarm of _selfs_ entered the airy tower room, each one carrying a golden thread of possibility, and each incredibly thin, incredibly _strong_ strand was wrapped around a tooth — a single _tooth_ that was barely able to clear the floor, no matter it was being lifted by several dozen _selfs_.

"What _is_ this?" Toothiana murmured, taken aback by the sight. Reaching out, she took the tooth from them. And was caught in return.

_It was cold. So very, very cold. And it was bright. So very, very bright. And there were years upon years upon _eons_ of memories, stacked one on top of the other and wrapped around themselves — and most flickered in and out of being... As if they'd not yet happened. As if they might not happen at all. And there was death inside the tooth, the _memory_ of death that no child's tooth should ever contain. _Who_ would remember their death? But the death was at the very beginning of the shifting, _maybe_ memories; memories of sorrow and happiness, horror and wonder. And snow. Nearly every single memory shone with the light of moonlight reflected off snow so bright she could see nothing of the memories themselves._

"Ah, you got it," Aster said, suddenly next to her, looking a bit flustered himself. "Not that I doubted you would. Except, in case, you might not have. Retrieved it, that is. Which would have been tragic indeed. _Indeed_." The Pooka handed her a small, carefully crafted box of opal, his ears twitching in his nervousness. "That should fit inside your normal box. I specifically designed it to do so. If it doesn't, I would think the flaw lies in _your_ box, not mine."

"Bunnymund." Although confused, Toothiana gratefully dropped the impossible tooth into the beautifully carved box and closed it. Closed it upon cold and light and _time_ immeasurable, and the _weight_ of the tooth — was gone. "I don't understand. That is no child's tooth."

"It is. And it is not. You're entirely right. You're also entirely wrong. No need to fret over it, though. You're not meant to understand. Not at this time. Or place."

"—Neither are you _our_ Bunnymund." With a last, considering stare, she gave the tiny box to her smallest, singular _self_ for proper storage. She wasn't sure who the tooth belonged to, though she _might_ know if she cared to question — but the tooth had disturbed her greatly and she was still so terribly far behind schedule. "I take it the tooth is of some importance to bring you here?"

Aster sniffed, a sniff as though he'd caught the faintest trace of chocolate in the breeze that whispered through Toothiana's Aerie. "The last baby tooth of a Guardian is _always_ of utmost importance."

"But Katherine was the only child Guardian."

"Oh, I dare say if you'd collected one of North's teeth, it would have acted in much the same manner. Only, not in the same manner at all, I would think. Really, the circumstances aren't at all similar. Toothiana, that particular tooth holds _every_ memory that boy will ever earn — for he'll have no way of saving them himself.

"Guard it well. Just — not _too_ well." And with a step, Bunnymund was gone.

She wasn't quite used to her role as a Guardian. Wasn't used to the expanded scope of her job. Wasn't _used_ to dealing with time-traveling Pookas that may or may not be the one she knew. But if that tooth belonged to a future Guardian, _if_ all that light belonged to someone she would someday call friend...

_The future was bright, indeed._


	39. mirror

In The Silence

~39~

The Burgess' house is filled with the warm, yeasty scent of _Duivekater_ baking; _Duivekater_, and _pepernoten_, and _kruidnoten_; and throughout the room drifts the tang of ginger, cloves and nutmeg. Cinnamon and anise blend rather than compete, and over all the diverse spices there's the permeating sweetness of honey. No bakery has ever smelled so wonderful to Jack, and over the years he's pressed himself up against the windows of thousands the world over to sniff wistfully at the treasures made within. Rachel is _baking_ as though preparing to feed an infantry division instead of her small family. But she is smiling as she kneads. Laughing as Sarah and Teddy steal handfuls of cookies as they dash out the door for another hour of play. And singing softly under her breath as Thaddeus walks in the door.

"_V__elkommen_!" She greets him, flinging up a floury hand in a dramatic flourish.

"Rachel!" Thaddeus closes the door behind him and sits upon the small stool set next to the doorway to remove his boots. "It smells grand in here; I take it we're in for a treat tonight, as well as tomorrow?"

She giggles behind her upraised hand, leaving a smear of flour across her cheek and chin. "A treat, indeed. Wandering out in the snow all day must have blinded you, my husband. And poor Jack has been waiting patiently all day for you to return home. I thought we might hold off until tomorrow to give him his clothes — but he's ever so excited over the buttons."

"Jack?" The man pauses with one boot still on, and quickly looks around the room. "Are — are you sure, Rachel? I don't see him..."

"Here I am!" Jack shouts, jumping out from behind the table and dashing across the room. "Rachel thought it would make a good trick! Did it, Thaddeus? Are you surprised?" He can't help but jump from foot to foot, and frost spreads across the floor with each small leap. "I've been waiting _forever_, Thaddeus; do you have any idea how hard it is to be _good_ for so long?"

"Careful of the floor, dear," Rachel chides him, eyeing the quickly melting frost with bemusement.

"Oh, right." With his last leap he lands on the crook of his staff, and Jack stares down at the man with a bright, merry grin as Thaddeus blinks — and grins in return.

"Why, there you are, indeed! Welcome back, child! You're late in returning this year; but then, it's not exactly winter you're tied to, is it?" The man gestures to the spray of bluebells Jack had tucked into his coat's top buttonhole before departing from the south's late spring. "Such sights restore me, Jack: a winter child garlanded in flowers playing in my home. I doubt there's any father in this country more blessed."

Thaddeus' smile is nearly as warm as a hug from Sandman — and _nearly_ as good. And to keep his arms from reaching towards the man — he doesn't need or _want_ a hug, he _doesn't_ except a hug would _feel_ so very nice — Jack fumbles with the bluebells, pulling them from his coat and offering them _in place of a hug_. Surely flowers are _nearly_ as good as a hug?

With a hearty laugh Thaddeus shakes his head before taking off his remaining boot. "Nay, child. Such a gift is far more befitting the lady of the house. Rachel, my heart!" he calls out as he stands and shrugs out of his coat. "Hold out your hand! It seems Jack brought a present for you this holiday as well!"

Taking the hint, Jack drops down from his staff and with utmost gentleness places the spray of purple-blue blossoms into Rachel's outstretched hand. For a single second they shimmer as he releases his grip, and he tugs at the ends of his coat sleeves to keep his fingers occupied against the sudden impulse to try and hug Rachel as well. He doesn't know where the need has come from — only that he _needs_ to embrace _something_. Something warm, and caring... and alive.

_Perhaps it's time to visit Sandman. Or time to find Nightlight. But he'd much, much rather hug Thaddeus and Rachel instead, if only he could. It's far _past_ time for a hug._

"Oh!" The flowers are no more beautiful than the rosy blush spreading along her cheeks beneath their dusting of flour. "A vase, man! Fetch me a vase!" Rachel commands as the bluebells betray the slight tremor of her hand. "Goodness, a bouquet to welcome in winter..." With as much care as Jack had used in giving her the flowers, she places them in the glass her husband presents to her. "Jack lad, my thanks. Bluebells — are so very dear to me. Us. —To all of us." There's a liquid sheen to her gaze — but he thinks they may be _happy_ tears, and he's learned from his brother that tears of joy are capable of mending _so_ much _more_ than tears of sorrow.

Rachel's tears certainly seem to be healing something deep within her, and he can't help wondering if everyone has an unbreakable thing inside them, some unbreakable thing that grief can shatter. He doesn't know; doesn't know _how_ he'll ever know, but it feels like a truth. He thinks it may very well be a truth, as Rachel places the flowers at the center of the table and holds her other hand close to her heart, as if her chest aches.

_He knows that ache._

"A fine, festive table," Thaddeus approves, gloveless hands busily sneaking fresh-baked cookies from the tin. "And a fine, festive Saint Nicholas' Eve looks to be shaping, as well. But what's this, wife, about Jack's clothes? Not much need holding them back a day; a gift isn't nearly as wonderful if you already know what it is."

"Which is what I concluded, _husband_," she answers saucily, gently slapping at his erring hand — but not hard enough to force him into dropping the _pepernoten_. "Besides which..." She scratches the side of her nose lightly with a fingernail, and Thaddeus' brows rise in surprise before a sly secret hides in the quirked corner of his grin. "Yes, so; Jack is more than welcome to the shirt and trousers this evening, preferably before the children come charging back in — but it seems he needs _you_ to hand him his present."

Thaddeus blinks in honest surprise, and his grin momentarily turns rueful. "Och. I hadn't thought there'd be a problem. Well, easily enough taken care of!" Slapping his hands together, he kneels before the chest and opens it, pulling out the carefully sewn outfit. "What do you think, Jack? They _should_ fit, but you're quite the challenge to measure properly."

Jack takes the clothes; takes them and presses them close to his face, inhaling the scent of new, clean fabric. The mother of pearl buttons are more wonderful than he'd thought they would be, smooth and cool beneath his fingers, and rainbows drift across their surface as he shifts the shirt between his hands. "Thank you, Rachel," he breathes, offering her a bow over the carefully held outfit; just because she cannot _see_ him doesn't mean she doesn't deserve the courtesy.

"My heart, I do believe your sewing has won you an admirer." Standing, Thaddeus walks across the room and opens one of the interior doors. "You can dress in the children's room if you wish, Jack. Do try not to ice anything over, though. It's easy enough to explain in this room; I track in snow all the time, but their bedroom? They'd have me on the roof out in the dark tonight checking for a leak."

He's not entirely sure why Thaddeus doesn't want to go up to the roof — Jack sits atop roofs often, watching the Moon make its way across the star-strewn night, and finds roofs both comfortable and comforting — but the man must have his reasons, and so Jack takes extra care as he enters the room, making sure not a single feathering of frost escapes his control. It's difficult — ever so difficult, because he has _new clothes_ to wear, nearly as soft against his skin as snow. New clothes, as warm to wear as Rachel's blush. A new, fine cotton shirt with buttons prettier than snowflakes, and new dark brown trousers sewn with lighter brown thread, and there along the inside of the waistband is his name stitched in blue.

_Jack._

He quickly pulls back on his coat; his coat of corduroy nearly the same color as his trousers, and gathers his old clothes in a bundle. He's not sure what to do with them — but Rachel approves of tidiness, and he thinks it best _not_ to leave them strewn across the floor. He then walks out of the room, only _walk_ doesn't quite convey the proud set of his shoulders as he smiles at Thaddeus and hands the man his old outfit.

"Look!" Jack tells him, stretching out his arms and spinning in a circle. "I'm proper!"

Thaddeus smiles back at him as he folds the old, worn clothes and places them in the bottom of the trunk. "You look fine, Jack. Quite fine. How's the fit? Too tight? Too loose?"

"No." Jack shakes his head, and scrambles up to the window in case they have any doubts. [No. Perfect. Thank you!]

Rachel reads his message as she rolls out pie crust; reads, and ducks her head to hide unseemly satisfaction. "I'm glad, lad." Wiping her hands on a small towel stuck under her apron tie, she steps over to Thaddeus and leans against his side as she continues watching the window. "I just — wish I could see him the way you do." She sighs, then sighs again as her husband's arm wraps around her waist. "I suppose that's one of the drawbacks of being a Burgess by marriage, instead of by blood."

There's a peculiar look on Thaddeus' face, a searching expression as though some long forgotten memory has made itself known. "I've — an idea. It seems farfetched, but... My heart," he releases his grasp around his wife, but not before giving her stomach a fond pat, "would you mind terribly if I gave you your present early?"

"The looking glass?" Chewing at her lower lip, Rachel shrugs, unsure of the reasoning behind her husband's request — but neither is she against it. "I see no harm in it; you've already set the pegs in place. —But why? Surely you don't think—"

"Ah, but I do!" Giving her a jaunty wink, Thaddeus hurries to the house's third room, returning with a large, paper-wrapped parcel. Quickly unwrapping it, he exposes the gilt-framed mirror within. Taking a deep, steadying breath he lifts the heavy, ornate mirror and hangs it on the pegs hammered into the wall. "Now that," he says, standing back to admire his handiwork, "is a fine sight indeed. As fine as any man could wish for!"

Rachel laughs and swats his arm reprovingly, for it's her own reflection the mirror is displaying. "I'm a fright, man!" she chuckles, lifting the towel to wipe at her flour-streaked face. "Goodness, you couldn't tell me I was wearing a loaf's worth of flour?"

"Ah, that's my heart; sweeter than _Duivekater_!" Thaddeus joins her in front of the mirror, and together they study their reflections. "Jack, child..." he asks, a slight quaver tightening his voice. "Would you mind terribly standing with us? I — I'm curious as to what the looking glass will make of you."

Jack's never seen a mirror before. Oh, he's seen them through windows, reflecting the rooms of stately houses in the bigger cities — but he's never before looked _into_ one. It's almost like _ice_, he thinks, but no ice has ever cast a reflection so clear — so _sharp_ that it takes his breath from his first glance. He's _there_, in the mirror, in front of Thaddeus and Rachel. He's _there_; it must be him, for he's reaching out one pale finger, and the reflection of a boy is reaching in return... and... and...

Rachel gasps; a small, awed gasp as her eyes widen with wonder at the glowing form revealed — but Jack doesn't hear. He can't hear her over his panicked choking, for the boy in the mirror is wearing _his_ clothes; his beautiful, new clothes...

_He's there, and he's __**horrible**__._

White hair, and white, white skin that nothing _living_ would claim. He looks like _death_; looks like the grim, disturbing woodcut of Death in one of Thaddeus' books. Death, and plague, and _famine_ is staring back at him from the mirror, and a piercing cry escapes him as he scrambles away; away from the looking glass and its horrible _shadow_ truth; away to the corner underneath the window where he huddles and rocks in denial.

_That's not him. It can't be him. He's a boy — a boy dressed as any other boy..._

"Child! Child, Jack..." Thaddeus is crouched in front of him, and Rachel is staring across the room with her hands across her mouth _and he knows they _know_ they've made a terrible mistake, inviting a _thing_ like him into their home._ "What's wrong, child? Do — do you not like the clothes? It's okay; we'll make new ones! Oh, oh God! Don't cry, child! Please don't cry!"

Ice crawls out from under him, and he can't control it. Control escapes him completely as hail falls from his eyes, and he doesn't know how Thaddeus dares come so close to... to...

[monster] he scratches into the heavy frost coating the floor. Then, after a moment's shaking hesitation, he adds [ugly death book]

Thaddeus is shocked into silence but Rachel has no qualms as she rushes forward and scrapes away the message in the frost with the hard sole of her shoe. "No! No, lad," she denies, sitting down in a swirl of skirts and apron. "Not in the slightest! You're beautiful, Jack; like, like an angel! Why — why would you ever _think_ you're ugly?"

He knows he's _not_ beautiful, but neither does he know why Rachel would lie to him. [not a boy] he writes slowly. [I not a boy]

With a heavy hand Thaddeus wipes out the words. "You've never before seen yourself, have you?"

"No." Jack shakes his head, and wishes he still had his cloak to hide under. "I thought I was a snowflake. A-and then I thought I was a boy. But I'm all _wrong_." He holds out his hands, his thin, pale hands — and _knows_ now that the rest of him is the same. "There should be _color_. People have _color_. I should... I — I _should_..."

_'Jack boy,'_ Snowflake's voice is soft, and echoes of love and understanding. _'You've always been a frost child; you're a perfectly perfect frost child. Do you not look like Nightlight? Is Nightlight a monster? Or any less a boy? Shouldn't you look like your brother?'_

It disturbs him, his moonbeam's observation, and he presses his hand down upon the relic hidden beneath layers of clothing. "But Nightlight is made of light of all colors, not... not a complete lack of them." There's a certainty, a stealthy, secretive recollection in the vault of his memories that tells him he should be brown of hair and brown of eyes; as brown as the corduroy that makes up his coat — and that his absence of color is wrong. _So wrong._ At the same time, though, he knows Snowflake is _right_. It only makes sense that he looks like Nightlight...

_Is it so bad, looking like his brother?_

"Jack." Sighing wistfully, Thaddeus sits down from his awkward crouch, his back wedged against a table leg and his own legs sprawled in front of him. "I don't know what to say. Only — I never found your appearance alarming, child. Spirit-like, yes. Absolutely I agree with Rachel; although I do think an angel would be hard pressed to match your grin when you've mischief in mind." A smile flickers across his lips, remembrance of numerous snowballs he's failed to duck. "A boy, though, you most definitely _are_. A winter child, as I've always said. —Won't you join us in front of the mirror once more? Rachel scarcely had the chance to see how you look in your new outfit."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to _see_ himself, not ever again. ...Except, now he's curious; ever-so-slightly curious. Does he truly look like Nightlight? Is he as much star child as frost child? And there's a pleading quality to Rachel's gaze as she gets up, holding out her hand as if to help him to his feet.

Clutching his staff, Jack stands after Thaddeus regains his footing. And though frost coats the floor and walls and ceiling of the room, all he sees in the man's eyes is concern. _Concern for a child he cares about greatly._ Thaddeus beckons from his place at Rachel's side, the both of them standing in front of the looking glass, and with a shiver that rattles his bones Jack edges forward to join them.

_White._ White of hair, and white of skin _that crawls in disgust_ but he can do this. He can do this for Rachel, whose staring at their reflection — and _smiling_. Smiling — as if she's _happy_ to see him.

"Such wondrous eyes!" she says, reaching over his shoulder to run her finger down the silvered surface. "Blue as bluebells peaking from a snowdrift. A good, straight nose; a nose for following truth, that is, with just the tiniest tilt of impudence resting on the tip." Her finger curves around the outlines of his face, pausing along the reflection of his jaw. "A stubborn chin; a chin to rise above adversity — and a mouth made for laughter, laughter to chase away all the troubles in the world. Look at you, Jack," she whispers into his ear; not touching, not _quite_, but her warmth soothes away any lingering doubts. "A boy to make any mother proud."

_He wants to hug her, hug her and never let go_ but instead he offers her a teary, wavering smile. "Love you, Rachel," he tells her; tells her reflection in the mirror — but while his lips form the words, his reflection — the traitorous lips of his reflection — are too blurred by sudden frost to see.

Rachel's reflection, though, is clear — and is displaying the first signs of a scowl. "Now, my husband, can you tell me _why_ this poor boy is wandering about without shoes?"

Her pouting tone breaks the moment, and Jack bursts into laughter like snowflakes. "Shoes? What would I need shoes for?"

It's apparent that Thaddeus' is thinking much the same, for he scratches his head in obvious puzzlement. "Woman, what would he need shoes for? Jack can _fly_ like you wouldn't believe. Besides, it's not as if his _feet_ can get cold—"

"Ahp!" Her upright finger is enough to reduce her husband to cowed silence. "I'll take no impertinence from _you_, Thaddeus James Burgess!" Her scowl has reached impressive proportions, and Jack can't stop himself from hopping back a step. "Shoes are of utmost importance, especially considering what day tomorrow is. Tell me, _man_, what Jack should leave in front of the hearth for tomorrow evening, hmm? One of Teddy's boots will be there, as well as one of Sarah's shoes — but where will Jack's present end up?"

"...Oh! My heart, you do think of everything!"

Jack watches in utter bewilderment as Thaddeus searches the house, finally, triumphantly holding aloft a worn piece of leather. And his confusion only grows as the night wears on. Teddy and Sarah eventually come in for the evening, laughing and chattering and snitching handfuls of cookies from the tin, even after Rachel warns them they'll ruin their appetites. Sarah only giggles as her brother blusters, and tries to draw attention away from his misdeeds by pointing at the fireplace.

"What's that, Mama?" the boy asks as crumbs dribble from the _kruidnoten_ he's stuffed into his mouth. "Is Papa expecting a gift from Sinterklaas?"

"I would think the question should be: Are _you_ expecting a present, Theodore? You know Sinterklaas' stance on _naughty_ children." Rachel raises an eyebrow — and cookies are returned, somewhat the worse for handling, to the tin. "Now get yourselves ready for dinner."

He doesn't know who this _Sinterklaas_ is, or what's so important about tomorrow — but when Thaddeus opens the house's door for Jack to slip through that night, he leaves behind him a mystery. Resting in hopeful expectation on the fireplace hearth is one of Teddy's boots, one of Sarah's shoes — and a beaded, leather moccasin, upon the sole of which Thaddeus had carefully written JACK with a piece of charcoal pulled from the cook oven's fire.

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ -_- Late. But Late doesn't equal Fail... right?_

_Duivekater: A sweet, white bread enjoyed during certain holidays — such as The Feast of St. Nicholas ^_^ Looking it up, it seems roughly 4 out of 5 people capitalize it; I'm assuming maybe because of its Germanic roots? If any Dutch readers could enlighten me on this, it would be much appreciated :) Also, if I've made any other glaring errors, I'll swiftly go back and correct them; just let me know! (The Burgess family is supposed to be celebrating the holiday, after all, not making a mockery of it ^^;; )_

_pepernoten:_ _A cookie-like kind of confectionery, traditionally associated with the early December Sinterklaas holiday in the Netherlands. The Dutch equivalent of Pfeffernüsse (and might I add how much I adore Pfeffernusse? Okay, I gotta see if Trader Joe's still has any left over from the holidays. I need me some, now! Growrr!)._

_kruidnoten: Not to be mistaken with pepernoten lol! a cookie-like kind of confectionery, traditionally associated with the early December Sinterklaas holiday in the Netherlands._

_V__elkommen: welcome =)_

_leaving shoes by the fireplace: This tradition actually starts at the end of November. Small gifts are left in the children's shoes for them to find each morning leading up to St. Nicholas Eve. It's where we've gotten the tradition of hanging stockings from. Now, it's _not_ traditional for presents to be left in them on the actual holiday (well, eve of the holiday) but I figure we can just gloss over that small fact, right? o.o Yup, suspension of disbelief in progress._

_Please do remember, the Burgess family is celebrating both St. Nicholas Eve and Christmas — and North's holiday, well, it's Christmas — even if he hasn't properly established himself with it yet ^_~ So do not expect any gifts from North right now ^_^v_

_And, no, Jack's reflection will not appear in every mirror he happens to pass. It's only able to happen because Thaddeus believes it can happen. Away from Thaddeus, Jack has a much, much fainter reflection._

_Many lovely, huggle-filled thanks to _Breezyfeather, Bookworm Gal, RandomKrazyPerson, Crystal Peak, Yue Hikari, AnnLuc, Alana-kittychan, whylime, 1valleygirl4, Smoochynose, oceanlover4evr, Eternal She-Wolf, blackkyu, Twilight Cardmistress, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, LiviahEternal, Alaia Skyhawk, fourty-eight, Anne Camp, UVNight, Dragowolf, Hannah, bookworm, Julie Winchester, Clio Ying, Rahar Moonfire, SpiritOfTheLandXIII, Gamma Cavy, Rachelle Lo, mjbaerman, hi_ and _!A4E!_ for their reviews. Thank you thank you thank you!_

_Some very astute readers got the willies from the mention of the preacher. Let's just say he's a possible story arc - as in I wanted to lay the foundation, but nothing may come of it depending on my mood ^^;; How much angst does poor Jack boy actually need? So, the near-term plot runs something like this... Finish up Sinterklaas leading into Christmas. Jack goes to find out more about this Big Red Lobster Man. Jack returns to Burgess for the little plot point most of you should catch in this part -gigglesnort- which might lead into Jack versus the Preacher Somewhat Out Of Place in Pennsylvania's Rather Forward Sheltering of Different Religions. (Really. Just about every small sect, splinter, and group found welcome in Pennsylvania until a bit before the Civil War. Amazing history there.)_

_Sorry this part ran later than even I was expecting ^^;; Unfortunately, an incredible amount is happening in my life right now, leaving very little time to write. I have no intention of abandoning the story, though! However, I'm not going to be able to go back to the daily posting schedule - or anything even close. Luckily, just about everyone that's reading has _Silence_ on story alert, so you'll know when a new part comes out ^_^_

_Also, I'd love to get another Grumpy!Jack drabble done as well; again, it's just finding time. There will be more, I just don't know when. Huggles to all, and wishing everyone a lovely day filled with those nifty toe-warmers that fit in your shoes!_


	40. belong

In The Silence

~40~

Jack meets up with Thaddeus as he's leaving the barn. The pail that the man is holding is partially filled with creamy milk that steams in the cold morning air — and Jack inspects it curiously, for milk is a rare commodity during his season when most households let their cows and goats go dry. He knows it has something to do with the scarcity of fodder, or perhaps the added cost; he _knows_ it's something most people do with their livestock, and maybe it's the increased labor they're avoiding so they're not out as long in winter's chill. But he has also come to learn that barns are warm, sheltering places when they belong to good, hard-working families — so maybe there's something he's _missing_ about cows and milk and winter.

He's starting to think there's all sorts of things that he's _missed_ — but how can he know he's missing something if there's no one to correct him? For so, so very long, there'd been no one to _ask_. Oh, Sandman tries his best to answer questions, but simple concepts are much easier to understand than complex explanations when displayed in whirling clouds of gold. The cruel-kind lady would likely know, but she comes as she will, and for all his traveling Jack's never once found _her_, and every time he's been tempted to call... he's thought better of it. She might be the kindest woman in the world, but she's also the cruelest, and nestled under his heart is the tiny, pinched fear of her other nature.

"Thaddeus," he asks as he hovers in front of the busy man, "why do you have milk, but not your neighbors? Rachel's sister is quite put out; says her heifer's been dry since the middle of autumn. Is milking hard? Why does Rachel spend so much time making butter from cream? Is it because you can stack bricks of butter, but you certainly can't stack milk pans of cream? Well, I _suppose_ you could, if you don't mind the mess when they topple over..." The image gives him pause as a naughty smirk forms upon his lips. "What a _lovely_ mess that would be!"

"You seem in a right fine mood this morning, Jack," Thaddeus welcomes him, and Jack reins in his wicked thought, for there's something disquieting in the idea of ruining all of Rachel's milk. Rachel works hard enough, so he shoves the trick aside for another day. Perhaps a day when Rachel's sister has milk pans set out... "Would you like to come in? This morning Sarah found a thimble in her shoe, and Teddy's been playing with the marbles left in his boot. Care to find out what might be hidden in your moccasin?"

Jack's not entirely sure he's heard Thaddeus correctly — he doesn't know _how_ a thimble and marbles would wind up inside shoes — but he's forced to dodge to the side or risk having Sarah run _through_ him as she hurries to Thaddeus, and it's far too nice of a morning for _that_.

"Papa!" she squeals, jumping into her father's arms and paying little heed to the milk that sloshes over the edge of the bucket. "May we go to the Buchers, Papa? Mama said Teddy and I might, if you agreed."

"Did she now?" Thaddeus asks, bringing the little girl to rest atop his hip. "And have you and your brother had your breakfast?"

Teddy is tromping through the snow with a vibrantly red felt cap pulled low over his ears. "We have, and Mama says you should be quicker in your chores if you want more than crumbs!" The boy has his mittened hands tucked inside his coat pockets, and he leans back to stare up at his father. "I've my marbles to show Thomas; he's been _on_ about his for weeks—"

"—And Teddy wants to show off his new ones!" Sarah whispers loudly into her father's ear. "Mama says it's unseemly pride, but the marbles _are_ nicer than Tommy's. His are just plain clay, but the ones in Teddy's boot last night are pretty wood ones, polished bright as glass!"

"Are they, now?" With a pat to her back Thaddeus sets his daughter down, readjusting her scarf more firmly around her neck. "Well, I do see where you might need to visit with the Buchers — just to compare _workmanship_, of course. Your mother and I will expect you home shortly, however," he warns earnestly before one eyelid drops in a lazy wink. "What a tragedy it would be, if you missed Sinterklaas because you were too busy boasting of your good fortune."

"We won't be late, Papa!" Teddy assures his father as he grabs his sister's hand.

"We'll only play a bit," Sarah adds, doing her best to follow her brother's lead. "But... but if we are a _little_ late, maybe you can invite Sinterklaas for a cup of tea? And Mama can offer him _kruidnoten_; he must get terribly hungry while delivering presents, don't you think?"

"That's quite thoughtful of you," Thaddeus tells his daughter, nodding with agreement. "A fine idea, indeed. Off you go to visit, then, and I'll have your mother prepare a plate of cookies _just in case_ you run a touch late getting home."

Jack watches the children as they turn to leave, Teddy in front to break the path for his younger sister through the deep, drifting snow. There's something familiar in the sight — and of _course_ it's familiar, for he's seen siblings do precisely this for years upon years, winter upon winter as children made their way outside to play. But there's something _more_ than familiar in the sight; Jack has the muscle-memory of being in Teddy's place, breaking the path for a child following in his steps... but it's a _false_ memory, a _shadow_ memory, for until recently he hasn't left so much as a footprint upon the snow, let alone sunk _through_ it up to his knees...

_But he can almost remember what it feels like, to push through morning snow, a small, mittened hand held within his own; a taste of responsibility and love and the tang of evergreen upon a cool, crisp breeze as fingers wriggle from behind yarn, his and... hers, tangling together in trust._

He shakes his head, struggling to hold on to the memory — but it fades into the echoing gurgle of water and he's left with nothing but an ache in his chest and a burning behind his eyes that's fading almost before he notices it. _What was that_? he wants to ask, wants to _know_ but beneath his cramping hand Snowflake is sleeping, dreaming such dreams as make sense to a moonbeam; of flight, and light, and the constant search for shadows in need of illumination.

_His mind is nothing _except_ shadows — but Snowflake is _sleeping_ and Thaddeus is in front of him, his dark eyes even darker in concern, asking... asking..._

"Child, what is it? Is something amiss?"

Shaking his head once more, Jack focuses on the man in front of him and lets the faint, dreamy remnants of _not _memory slip back into the cracks of his mind. _Thaddeus_ is his present; Thaddeus is _his_ in ways not even his children are. And it settles into place, the place he's been so long denying; Thaddeus is _friend_, and _family_; _warmth_ and _home_ and everything a frost child can never have — but somehow _does_. For Thaddeus has a magic about him, a magic of _belief_ so strong that even the pure song of a star must give way before it, and a frost child has no _choice_ but to be swept giddily along. Thaddeus is _his_, undeniably his — but even more so, he is _Thaddeus'_ — and the realization has him clapping in joy.

"Nothing's wrong!" he says, swinging around his staff before dangling upside down from the crook, peering quizzically into the tin pail. "Except what milk hasn't spilled is now frozen solid. Rachel will have _words_ for you, Thaddeus. _Husband_," he raises his voice in mocking imitation, "_is a bit of _honest_ work too much to ask?_" He laughs, tapping at the side of the pail, rocking it slightly but in no way adding frost to the ice that has already accumulated on its surface, and when he speaks again his voice is once again his own. "You're going to be in trouble, Thaddeus — but Rachel's going to blame _me_ for the freezing."

Following Jack's pointing finger, Thaddeus notices the state of his pail. "Oh dear." He swings the pail on its handle and frowns at the complete lack of sloshing. "I — I suppose it will thaw out soon enough by the fire... I must say, I'm thankful Rachel's done with today's baking, or we might have found ourselves banished back to the barn, and it would be a true tragedy to miss the feast she's prepared for us this holiday." With a small, devilish grin he spins the pail in a complete circle as he whistles a simple tune. "Though it's best to humor Rachel, you know. For now. So, shall we dare her righteous wrath to see what might have been left behind for you, child?"

Shrugging, Jack grabs hold of his staff's crook as he pulls his legs free, righting himself before standing. "I don't know. —I'd rather not spend the day in the barn, if it's all the same to you. And I still don't understand this _Sinterklaas_ business." With a practiced twist of his wrist he lifts his staff and settles it across his shoulder; the Wind, sensing his sudden urge to leave, lifts him off his feet — but he's not quite ready to _go_. "I mean, some stranger is sneaking into your house and leaving _things_ in shoes? And stealing from Rachel's cookie tin? In the middle of the night? Is this _really_ an event to celebrate?"

There _must_ be something he's missing. Some knowledge that he's lacking, some fact he's not yet learned. For he's _seen_ strangers creep into houses — before. _Seen_ a man take what was not his — and pay for it dearly the next day with blood on the snow and the Wind snatching its child away before the raging crowds forced the thief up the wooden steps to where a loop of rope swung in smug satisfaction. He's _seen_ a man enter a cabin, followed by screams and the sharp scent of gunpowder — and those particular children never came out to play the next day, or in any of the days that followed.

He's _seen_ so many sneaking, skulking strangers — but never one _welcomed_ into a home; never one that's left behind gifts in exchange for cookies... And he thinks, _should_ he see such a man attempt to break into Thaddeus' fine, new house, he'll _freeze_ the scoundrel. Absolutely he will. While he might not be able to intervene on behalf of any of his other children — _this_ house is his_;_ _Thaddeus_ is _his_ and he'll welcome the help of skittering _yellow mad greedy_ eyes in destroying whatever dares threaten what's _his_.

He nods at the rat in wary greeting as it scurries across the wood piled next to the cabin across from them. He doesn't mind Pitch's presence — as long as the man respects boundaries. Pitch has duties to attend; the dark, frightening duties of a ravenous shadow, which Jack won't pretend to understand — but he knows they're needed.

_Without shadows, there'd be no mystery in the world._

~Goodness, Jack. How you've _grown_.~ The rat twitches its whiskers, and bares sharp, yellowed teeth. ~Do you actually believe you've come to comprehend darkness?~

That's the _point_: He doesn't need to understand shadows to realize their worth. Jack bares his own teeth in a savage grin and hurries after Thaddeus. He's curious, now, about the moccasin set upon the hearth for him yesterday. Curious about toys left inside footwear by gift-giving thieves. And, _by all means_ Pitch is welcome to haunt the dreams of Rachel's sister who _cursed_ the gentlest of snows, and forbade her children snowball fights, and was _due_ a nightmare or five, preferably over upset milk pans and cows that gave pure whey instead of sweet, creamy milk.

There's a considering, nearly _kind_ look dulling crazed, gleaming-gold eyes. ~I will see what I can manage. ...A happy Saint Nicholas' eve to you, Jack.~

_Even Pitch?_

"Thaddeus," he complains as the man holds the door to the house open, "you really must explain this to me, this — holiday — _thing_. I've seen children getting presents; that's not the problem. But the presents are left by _parents_, not strange men that break into houses to steal cookies! Rachel," he beseeches, tugging at her apron strings, "do tell him it's not proper, not at all."

Stamping snow from his boots, the man closes the door and beams at his wife. "Rachel, my heart! I do hope we're not too late for a bite of breakfast. I met up with Jack on the way back from the barn; that's him, bidding you a fond hello."

"I do imagine I might have figured that out on my own, Thaddeus." Although there's a scowl marring the line of her lips, a twinkle sparks from the depths of her eyes betraying her true mood. "A good morning to you, lad," she welcomes him, her gaze immediately straying to the gilt-framed mirror clouding with delicate swirls of frost.

[I did NOT freeze the milk.]

"No?" One eyebrow quirked, Rachel takes the pail from her husband to examine the contents. "I suppose, then, I must blame Thaddeus' poor work ethic."

"Woman!" the man protests as he tugs off his boots. "Blame me not! The milk was spilt when Sarah jumped into my arms. It was my thought that catching our daughter was a wee more important than the milk." He stares up at her through uneven bangs darkened with snowmelt as his smile widens in wicked delight. "Do recall who sent her outside in the first place! Ask my permission to visit the Buchers? As if I have a say in the running of your household!" His laugh is deep and booming, like the crash of surf upon a Dreamsand beach. "A fine ruse, my heart! —And did Sinterklaas come while I was out?"

"Hmm." Wiping her hands clean with a towel, Rachel turns back to the mirror and the bright splotch it is currently reflecting. "Jack, would you be able to check your shoe? I recall seeing a gleam of something inside, but it's not _my_ shoe and I'm far too busy preparing the meal. It would be a favor to me, truly."

"Okay." Jack's reply is hesitant. He _likes_ helping Rachel; likes participating in chores that send Teddy and Thaddeus alike running outside in foredoomed attempts at shirking duty, but he's not sure _how_ he can be of help in this situation. Even if there is something hidden inside the worn leather of the moccasin, there's little he can _do_ about it. Kneeling, he peers down into the shoe; pokes his finger at the strip of golden leather curled tightly inside and the shine of metal at the center.

"What have you found?" Done with his boots, Thaddeus crosses the floor and squats next to Jack, lifting the moccasin and flipping it over his other, outstretched hand. Leather falls into his palm and begins to uncurl, displaying the silver buckle hidden within. "Why, it's a belt!" he says as he sets the moccasin back down. "Do you hear, Rachel? Sinterklaas has left our Jack a brand new belt."

"Looks to be a strong, sturdy one." Holding a basket piled high with small, fragrant rolls, Rachel pauses on her way to the table to admire the present. "That should last an active boy a good, long while..." She blinks, a rapid flicker of long lashes against a momentary recollection of grief, before ducking her head and continuing on her way. "Well," she says, placing down the basket and turning, her hand on her hips and a fragile smile lifting the corners of her lips, "let's see how it looks on you, boy!"

Accepting the belt from Thaddeus, Jack examines it curiously, his fingers running across the impression of leaves pressed into the metal buckle. He's _seen_ belts before, but he's never had one of his own, and while he knows they go around a person's waist he's never bothered to learn the details of their function. It takes several attempts — and Thaddeus drawing his attention to the clever cloth loops Rachel had sewn into the waist band of his trousers — for him to get the belt on and buckled.

There are _so many_ things he's missed over the years. So many things he's failed to understand; each memory he pulls from the vault of his mind, polishes and observes in his search for clues, is full of meanings and nuances he'd missed when first they occurred. He's _still_ missing things, he knows he is, as he stands in front of the mirror with Rachel and Thaddeus behind him, a repeat of yesterday. There's joy dancing across the man's features, and quiet pride lurks in the crinkled folds of the woman's eyelids, as they stare at the mirror's reflection.

Stare at _him_.

His reflection hasn't changed — not all that much. There's a teasing flash of light catching on a silver buckle. There's a smudge of rainbow shimmering across the buttons of his shirt. There's a blue thread running along the hemmed corduroy of his coat collar that he's never before noticed — the same subtle blue that spells out his name inside the waist band of his trousers. _He hasn't changed_, not all that much; he's still a colorless blur inside fine clothes standing in front of a mirror upon which frost blooms in patterns of flowers and loaves of bread.

But he's a pale, _grinning_ frost child as Thaddeus drops a knit cap upon his head; a cap of yarn green as the tips of pine branches in spring with a brown border the exact same shade as his pants.

"Sinterklaas must know you've been a good boy this year, Jack," Thaddeus chuckles, and his hand lowers as though to adjust the cap. When his fingers pass through the decorative yarn tassel, though, his smile changes — still bright, still joyful, but now hinting at a certain wistfulness he dares not put into words.

"Tch, if I know boys," Rachel says in a tone no one would be so foolish as to contradict, "the lad will lose that cap within the week. Mark my words!" And while a stern warning lurks in her prediction, Jack realizes that the pride in her wide, wondering eyes isn't for her tailoring or her knitting skills — but all for him. _In_ him. For whatever reason, Rachel is _proud_ of him.

And he doesn't understand, not really. He knows he's missing something. But he thinks... he thinks it's tied up in the jittery, fluttery feeling in his chest as he runs the palm of his hand across their reflections, wiping away the accumulation of frost. Staring up at Thaddeus bulked up within his winter coat, and at Rachel with wisps of dark hair that's escaped from its braid curling around her sweat-dewed face with her starched apron wrinkled and stained by hard work — he thinks he might be feeling pride as well. Pride in _them_.

_Because they're __**his**__ — and he is theirs._

~o~

_**End notes:**__ Erm, and Esse got part 40 out, yay? ^^;; This part just didn't want to behave, at all. Barring, um, life? Grumpy!Jack should be appearing at the end of the next part :) Because he's been grousing at me._

Kaylessa_ is, as always, an awesome person. No qualifications such as 'a beta reader' or 'an artist'. Nah, she's just awesome. Really._

JanDi_ is also made of awesome for fanart! Go go go look at the amazing prettiness!_

jan-di dot deviantart dot com / # / d5rhlwi

_Just take out the FFnet mods to the addy to go see Jack repairing his tattered cloak. Huggles! Thank you so much; it's gorgeous!_

_Many very grateful thanks to _Twilight Cardmistress, Eternal She-Wolf, hiddenworldwalker, Breezyfeather, Master Li, Bookworm Gal, Smoochynose, whylime, Rachelle Lo, UVNight, Rahar Moonfire, Alaia Skyhawk, hi, myrddin767, Cindar, blackkyu, ThatOneFan, !A4E!, DoomCabbit, hisokauzumaki, DragonsFlame117, RandomKrazyPerson, ArmoredSoul, Crystal Peak, Yue Hikari, Fumus000, DragonflyonBreak, Anne Camp, oceanlover4evr, Dragowolf, savedbygrace94, Alana-kittychan, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, bookworm, 1valleygirl4, JanDi, fourty-eight, xXChu-ChanXx, naien543, FrostFan1, paracuties, Nixariel_, and _Night's Flower_ for their reviews. ^^;; When I get terribly stuck on a part (yeah, I'm rolling my eyes at you, part 40) I go back to read reviews, and they give me the strength to glare at my ancient version of Word and attempt to hack out another 20 words. And another 20. Until finally I've got something that's almost workable. Huggles to all! Huggles and nachos. Or, you know what? Ghiradelli makes an amazing frozen Caramel Latte. I'll hand those out, with extra caramel. Let's splurge, and go for the 24oz size. (I really never should have brought that menu home... Now, several times each day, I says to myself, "Esse. Why aren't we in Anaheim right now? We could take the MetroLink. We could be having Caramel Latte — but what are we doing instead? We are contemplating oatmeals. We does not want the nasty oatmeals for our breakfast. We wants the Caramel Latte!" How can I argue with reasoning like that?)_

_Hugs to all, and wishing you all a wonderful day filled with nummies!_


	41. toy

In The Silence

~41~

He _likes_ _pepernoten_. He likes the crunch of them between his front teeth and the chew of them against his molars. He likes the scent of them; spicy and sweet that provokes a tickling sensation in his nostrils prelude to a sneeze. He likes the taste; sharp and earthy and so unlike the blandness of water or the coolness of ice. He's nibbled at hard, heavy grains of wheat out of sheer boredom and boundless curiosity — and he can say, after sampling his third cookie, that there's absolutely no comparison between heads of winter wheat picked from the fields and Rachel's masterful _pepernoten_. He then wonders if anyone _but_ a frost child would ever think to compare the two, and the idea sets him to giggling from his sprawled position underneath the window.

Teddy and Sarah had returned to the house later than expected — at least by Jack. Thaddeus, though, took their tardy arrival in stride as though their behavior was not only predicted but condoned. And the man smiled down at his children, with their cheeks reddened from cold and exertion and strands of their hair tousled by the playful Wind; smiled, and told them that while Sinterklaas had regretfully departed after sharing a companionable cup of tea — for he was a busy man, on this the eve of his holiday — he'd left behind _presents_ for the children he'd missed during his visit.

The children had cheered and hugged their father tightly while Jack watched on, brimming with questions he didn't know how to ask. He'd _been_ in the house during Sinterklaas' supposed visit — but no stranger had passed through the door doling out gifts in exchange for cookies. No, _Rachel_ had gone into another room and come back with her arms full of paper-wrapped parcels of various sizes that she'd arranged upon the hearth where shoes had rested the evening before. And — in a way — Jack was glad that there had been no need to freeze a sneaking scoundrel solid while the house was filled with so much good will and cheer but — in another way — he was somewhat disappointed, for now he knew for certain that it _was_ parents that gave presents to their children, and the knowledge left a small, aching hollow under his heart where a flicker of belief had once danced in innocent delight.

Sarah had gotten a new, pretty doll with hair of brilliant yellow embroidery floss. She'd also gotten a cunningly crafted wooden cradle in which the doll could rest and a beautiful miniature quilt that Jack recognized as Rachel's work — a blanket to keep the doll warm during chill winter nights. Teddy had laughed as he'd played with his new wooden blocks, saying there was little need for either cradle or quilt considering the fact that Sarah would likely _sleep_ with the doll nestled within her arms, at which point the little girl had stuck out her tongue at her brother, and Rachel had had to threaten both children into better behavior with the promise of unsavory chores that still needed doing before peace was restored to the household.

With a put-upon sigh only a young boy could manage, Teddy picked up the last package on the hearth. "To Jack," he read out loud with a touch of discontent. "Papa, why would Sinterklaas leave a gift for someone you've made up?"

"Made up? What ever makes you think Jack's _made up_? Honestly," Rachel huffed as she took the package out of her son's hands, "you should learn to put your faith in what _you_ observe, Theodore, and not in what _others_ deem to be acceptable."

With a pout that Rachel in no way deserved, Teddy turned his back to his mother and fixed his attention on his blocks. "Pastor Allens says father will never get better, not as long as you keep humoring him."

"_Humoring him?_"

"Ock, my heart." Thaddeus wrapped his fingers around his wife's upraised hand; brought it to his lips and placed a loving kiss against her palm. "All we can do is try. I think... there's far more secrets to Jack than we'll ever know." Taking the parcel from Rachel, he held it out in front of him with an enticing shake. "Well, child?" he asked Jack with a careworn smile. "Give the paper a good tug; let's see what Sinterklaas has left for you."

"Another present?" Jack halted the one-sided game he'd been playing, of freezing Teddy's wooden blocks to the floor each time the boy tried to pick one up. He couldn't imagine what else he might need; he had fine new clothes, and a belt with a buckle that shone like moonlight upon snow, and even a knitted cap that he continued to wear — even if it was a bit too large, and itched upon his head — because Rachel had made it for _him_. It worried him slightly, the idea of yet another belonging, for he'd never before had so many _things_ that he'd need to keep track of.

Unable to hold back his curiosity, he stood from his game and walked over to Thaddeus; reached out and tugged against loosely wrapped paper — and laughed in pleasure as it easily pulled free. He couldn't hold on to it, but he didn't mind; there was satisfaction to be had in watching the paper drift gently to the floor and in seeing what had been hidden inside the paper's loose folds.

"A muffler..." He took the scarf from Thaddeus' hands, a scarf made from the same yarn as his cap, pine green with a raveled fringe of dark brown. It was not, however, the scarf that causes the tremble that wracks his fingers, but the small, soft form of a rag doll resting atop it. Only, it _wasn't_ a rag doll, but a rag _rabbit_. "It's — it's Aster," Jack said quietly, the tremble in his voice the same as the one affecting his grasp upon the gift. "_It's __**Aster**__._"

Hail fell from his eyes as he cuddled the toy rabbit close to his chest; and Sarah with her own two dolls — both brown-haired Molly and yellow-haired Bethy — secure behind her arm, clutched at Rachel's skirts and stared with wide, innocent eyes at the spot the scarf has disappeared to. "Is Papa's friend all right?" she asked, her gaze lowering to the glimmering droplets of ice falling to the floor. "Does he not like his present?"

"I don't know." Lifting her daughter, Rachel turned to her husband in concern. "Thaddeus? The mirror's at a wrong angle for me to see. _Is_ he all right? I know he's crying... Is there something wrong with the scarf?"

"I would say," Thaddeus said as he stood before Jack, "that there's something very _right_ with the rabbit you made, my heart. He's holding on to it like... like... some long-lost friend."

Scrubbing a fist across his eyes, Jack gave the man a fragile, trembling smile. "It's _Aster_." He hugged the doll again, and long, floppy ears brushed against his neck and tangled themselves in Snowflake's chain. "_Thank you._"

Rachel startled at the brief chill against the back of her hand; raised it curiously before she chuckled at the quickly melting spot of frost on her skin. "You're welcome, lad," she told him as she sat down in her rocking chair, Sarah tucked in beside her. "You're quite, _quite_ welcome."

Having not once looked up from his blocks, Teddy rolled his eyes disparagingly — and although Rachel scolded Jack for it, even she couldn't hide her amusement when he knocked over the boy's wooden blocks with a snowball composed more of ice than of snow. Thaddeus had congratulated him on his aim — and Jack had felt it prudent not to mention the fact that it hadn't been the _blocks_ he'd been aiming at.

Since then, Jack's sat in his spot underneath the window next to the table. Eventually the children put their new toys away — and it's Bethy that's left behind in the bedroom while worn, raggedy Molly stays safely ensconced in Sarah's arms. Teddy's blocks are back within their hand-carved box, all except two that will take several more hours of thawing before they can be pried from the floor. And the family is gathering around the table; Thaddeus beckons Jack to take a place and so he sits on the very edge of a chair that's never before been claimed by anyone in the household.

Rachel has her chair with her shawl draped across the back, closest to the cook stove. Thaddeus has his chair next to Rachel, a chair of ash carved with deer and pinecones that he'd made when he'd been a youth. Teddy and Sarah have their chairs, _children's_ chairs with longer legs that they might sit comfortably at the table — and now Jack has _his_ chair, a _new_ chair of pale yellow pine; a chair furthest from the fire but closest to the window and the mirror.

They eat Rachel's good food, and Jack tries bits of _everything_ that Thaddeus spoons upon his plate. But it's sweets that he likes best; breads and pies, cakes and _cookies_ that fit perfectly into his hands, cookies that fit into the clever pockets of his coat — but Thaddeus catches him as he's stuffing _pepernoten_ into his pockets and though the man laughs, he also shakes his head and tells him gently,

"It's okay, Jack. You're welcome to them whenever you want. Rachel can always bake more."

So Jack _supposes_ there's something not quite proper about stashing treats away in pockets; or, at least treats of the edible kind, as he's already put Aster Bunny in his coat's breast pocket, the doll's soft, rag ears listening attentively over the pocket's hemmed edge. And another pocket has one of Teddy's wooden marbles secreted inside — for the boy was _careless_ with his toys and Jack couldn't bear the thought of such a pretty bauble becoming lost. There's a button carved out of bone that he found outside the barn, and a feather blue as the sky that he'd discovered the night before. And now there are _pepernoten_ crumbs resting at the very bottom of his pockets — and _that_ might be why Thaddeus disapproved... but they stick to his fingertips as he raises them to his lips, and are just as sweet upon his tongue as the cookies themselves as he licks his fingers clean.

"Might I have _pepernoten_, Mama?" Sarah asks, and having more than he currently wants — and only slightly the worse for wear for having been in his pocket — Jack sets down two of the cookies on the girl's plate. While she cannot see _him_, she most certainly sees the cookies and with a gap-toothed grin she grabs one and bites into it with relish. "Thank you, Jack!" she says, tilting her head towards the new, pushed back chair.

Jack grins in return, a grin of joy and cookie crumbs, and when Teddy snorts and once more rolls his eyes Jack merely drums his fingers against the boy's plate and smirks wider at Teddy's aggrieved complaint that his meal's gone ice cold.

Shaking her head in mock-reproval, Rachel's, "Jack," is full of fond over-tones while Thaddeus laughs his deep, hearty laugh.

And he's _happier_ than he's ever before been. It's not _perfect_; not quite. It's not _Jack_ that Sarah believes in but her Papa's friend, that in her child's reasoning she assumes is much like her own beloved Molly. And Teddy refuses belief of any kind, for more than _anything_ he wants to grow up; to grow up, and _be_ as Phillip was — an older brother on the cusp of manhood, and in Teddy's mind that means setting aside the whims of childhood. But Thaddeus, and Rachel... Simple belief in a frost child has grown into something more, something _wonderful_ like the spicy scent of _pepernoten_ in a snug, welcoming house with the comfort of a scarf around his neck and the reassurance of both Snowflake _and_ Aster resting above his heart.

He bids them goodbye in the evening as Thaddeus makes his way to the barn to check on the cows for the night. He bids them goodbye in quick, darting tugs of their clothes and a scattering of frost against the window. The Wind wraps around him in greeting as he bids them goodbye with shouted well-wishes and the promise to return in the morning.

The Moon rises as he sits atop Thaddeus' roof — which he's checked thoroughly for holes, but there are none to be found. He sits on the roof with his staff across his knees and Aster Bunny in his hands, pressed up against his cheek as he gazes up at Moon.

"See?" he tell the Wind, as it riffles curiously through the exposed tips of his hair. "It's Aster. Only — small. But that's okay, because he fits in my pocket. Rachel's marvelously clever, isn't she?"

"See?" he shows Snowflake, pulling the relic out from behind the safety of his shirt. "It's Aster. Oh, not all of him — but doesn't he give wonderful hugs?" To prove his point, he cradles the rag doll carefully — and basks in the warmth that fills him.

"See?" he holds the doll up, out towards the Moon. "It's Aster. Of course, you probably already knew that, but just in case you didn't, I thought you might like to know. —It's been a long time, hasn't it? Since I last saw him... So, you know, if you should see him before I do... Could you ask him if he might visit, Moon? Not, not a long visit... Just a few minutes would be nice..."

He pets the head of the doll, and strokes the soft ears as the Moon makes its way across the star-bright sky. "See," he whispers to himself, into the ear of the rag doll rabbit. "It's Aster. He promised we'd meet again.

"...He promised."

~o~

_**End Notes:**__ Yay for anthropomorphic rabbit plushies! And, see, it all started because Rachel started making Jack a _dollie_. Thaddeus notices, and it goes somewhat like this:_

T: Wife, have you not already made Sarah a new doll?  
R: Tch. This is for Jack.  
T: o.o Um... Dearest... My lovely slice of peach cobbler... Jack's a _boy_.  
R: Hmph. A _lonely_ boy, Husband. You've said so.  
T: -_-;; Urp. Yes. That is... o.O;;;;; Jack's a _boy_, my dearest. As in, you know... B O Y.  
R: Are you telling me that I should _ignore_ a poor, grieving child that spends his time trying his best not to _hug_ you, man? Jack needs _something_ to cuddle — and you would deny him the most basic of human comforts?  
T: No! No, no, that's not it; not at all. Rachel love, put down your scissors; there's a good lass! It's only, ah... Don't you think a dollie is a little, um... girlish for Jack?  
R: ..._Girlish_? Of _course_ it's girlish. Heaven's sake, man; it's a dollie! What do you suggest?  
T: ^^;; Perhaps, that is — if you're up to it, my heart — you could make it into more of a... a... rabbit? Maybe?  
R: Rabbit? Because rabbits are so incredibly _masculine_, my husband?  
T: ...No. I... just... It _needs_ to be a rabbit. Somehow, I _know_ it needs to be a rabbit. Jack needs a rabbit that looks like a man; Lord above, maybe I truly have gone mad...  
R: Hmm. Mad as any other Burgess. Well, it shouldn't be too hard to adapt; long ears, and a bit more stuffing there... It'll certainly be unique. Thaddeus, dear?  
T: Yes, my heart?  
R: You're blocking my light.

_Yes, that's rather how it went down lol! Because I know how unusual a stuffed animal would be for this time period, let alone a plushie anthropomorphic bunny ^^;; ~And, yes, Jack keeps Aster Bunny around. In his pockets. In all his various and sundry outfits. So, yes, during the movie, there's a plushie bunny in his hoody's pocket. Along with the tooth box. And sometimes Baby Tooth. Who is giggling like mad over the worn, well-loved Aster look-alike._

_Many smile-filled and gracious thanks to _Bookworm Gal, Twilight Cardmistress, Cindar, PuppetMaster55, 1valleygirl4, DragonsFlame117, savedbygrace94, RandomKrazyPerson, Eternal She-Wolf, oceanlover4evr, blackkyu, Alaia Skyhawk, UVNight, hi, Breezyfeather, Dragowolf, Fumus000, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, bookworm, Alana-kittychan, Anne Camp, paracuties, Hannah, Crystal Peak,_ and _ForeverWillEnd_ for their reviews. Beautiful, lovely, cherished reviews are what will see me to the end of Silence =D Which, you know, is planned out, if I can ever get out of December of 1798 ^^;; This is the holiday season that will not end..._

_~Annnnd, to cheer you on your way, here's Grumpy!Jack, being grumpy!_

~o~

Ombric had not meant to stumble into the conversation. True, he rarely _meant_ any of his stumbles, be they upon discoveries, or conspiracies, or the slightly uneven steps of Big Root; mostly, he contented himself with the knowledge that ancient Atlantean wizards weren't _expected_ to be graceful so much as mysterious, and sometimes inexplicable. A person hardly _ever_ means to stumble; stumbles were notoriously hard to plan — and so Ombric could say with perfect honesty he'd not _meant_ to stumble into the conversation.

Only, stumbles are far more likely when the person involved had been eavesdropping beforehand. Even that, though, Ombric could explain away. He had a standing invite to Bunnymund's home. He had questions for the Pooka, regarding the Lamas' clock. He had an _idea_ that he wanted opinions on — even if he was rather sure the Pooka's _opinion_ would in actuality be a solid, unwavering NO!

Bunnymund was, in Ombric's mind, a little too fond of, "Naughty," and a little too frugal with, "By Jove, why didn't I think of such an amazing, wondrous plan to bring summer year-round to the Northern Hemisphere?" The wizard had with him detailed architectural designs of truly marvelous contraptions; slides of water and fountains that surged and sprayed to the merry tunes performed by a string quartet. The children would _love_ it, he was sure; all he needed was a fool-proof way to banish winter. Oh, not forever — eventually the Williams would start complaining about a lack of snowball fights — but surely a few winter-less years would cause no harm?

He had not meant to stumble into the conversation. He'd had no _intention_ of eavesdropping as he made his way through the Pookan tunnels connecting Santoff Claussen to Easter Island, but when he heard the incongruously mature voice that raised goose bumps along his arms and sent a cold skitter along his spine — he could not help himself. He recognized the voice; that calm, _cutting_ voice that belonged to Nicholas' guardian. And if the calmness and the coldness permeating the tunnel were anything to go by — Bunnymund would soon be in need of rescue, having some how, or done some _thing_, to earn winter's ire.

"He was _ran through_," the lean youth hissed, pacing the length of the room, and Ombric watched from the shadowed doorway as ice poured from the tip of his staff to swirl and eddy about his bare, pale feet. "In what _world_ does _ran through_ equate to, 'He's perfectly fine, Jack.' You _promised_ to look after him, Aster — and now there are children re-enacting his noble, tragic _death_ outside that ridiculous wizard's tree house!"

Bunnymund's nose twitched as he sipped from a steaming, fragrant cup of tea. "It's how children work through trauma; you of all people should know how games can lessen the pain and fear of sights too horrible for a child's comprehension. And Nicholas _is_ fine; a bit of special chocolate and he was as good as new. Somewhat _better_, actually," the Pooka added with a disdainful sniff. "Chocolate has that effect, you know. It makes everything _better_."

"Makes _you_ grow extra appendages and speak in tongues, which I scarcely consider _better_." The youth slashed his hand through the balmy air in front of him and wind colder than that which swept down the steep sides of the Himalayas whipped across the room, solidly freezing the cup of tea before the Pooka could take another sip. "Chocolate. **Bah**."

"Bah? _Bah?!_" Standing from his chair, Bunnymund marched up to the youth and towered over him, quivering in rage. "Dare you malign chocolate?"

Had Ombric been a betting man — or more of a betting man than any wizard naturally was — he would have made no wagers concerning the Pooka's chances of success in a contest against the starveling-thin youth. Had Ombric been a _wiser_ man — or at least wiser than the average wizards whom often thought staring down into active volcanic calderas a bit of a thrilling lark — he might have ran for his life. Had Ombric the least bit of _sense_ at all instead of entirely too much curiosity, he would have saved himself a week's-worth of nightmares — and the occasional, disbelieving chuckle — by turning around and forgetting he'd ever entertained the notion of banishing winter.

_Snow_ fell thickly in the room, and the youth had grabbed hold of one of Bunnymund's ears, pulling the Pooka's head to eye-level. "_Dare_ you insinuate that it's perfectly _fine_ for the Nightmare King to fill Nicholas full of _holes_? I do not _care_ if he was quickly healed, Aster. _That is not the point._" The rounded crook of the youth's staff came up and rested lightly underneath the Pooka's chin. "You and Lunar contrived to force a child upon me. Upon _winter_, my _friend_."

"It's in neither of your natures to be cruel, Jack; yours, nor winter's." Bunnymund said, his voice soft as though in understanding.

"Neither is it in winter's nature to be _kind_, and you have no _idea_ of the struggle between us. No idea how _tired_ I am, Aster..." With a sigh he let go of his friend's ear, instead resting his hand on the other's tall shoulder. "No idea how much I _need_ to see Nicholas happy. And smiling. His smile has never been brighter, since he's come to Santoff Claussen. But neither has he been as seriously wounded as he's been since entering the wizard's care.

"If I were to _lose_ Nicholas—"

"You shan't," Bunnymund gave quick reassurance, bravely running his paw through his friend's thick, white hair. "I've been there. I've _seen_ it, Jack. It will come about, the end of the war — and Nicholas will be beloved by all the world. Only..."

"Only?" The youth lowered his staff, and snow crept from the corners of the room to a tidy heap that dissipated with a shimmer of seasonal magic.

"Only — I do wonder why we never sent _you_ after Pitch."

"Send cold after dark?" The youth's laugh was the laughter of some wild thing, wicked and unfettered and indescribably free. "Oh, I would most certainly _win_ that contest, Aster. Pitch is merely simple _fear_ given form. But Tsar Lunar is much too wise to allow that particular battle, is he not? Isn't that, at heart, the true reason I was given Nicholas? To stay winter's hand? To teach haughty, overbearing winter _compassion_?"

Bunnymund sighed again, and sat wearily in his chair. "You've always had compassion, Jack. Too much so, at times. So — no sending _you_ against Pitch, no matter how that wretch deserves it."

"But... but why _not_?" Ombric asked, needing to _know_, needing _answers_ — and thereby stumbling into a conversation he would have been far better off avoiding. Some answers lead to a week's-worth of nightmares. Some answers lead to the occasional, disbelieving chuckle.

And some answers started with the narrowing of _ancient_, ice-blue eyes set into a colorless face, and a scowl as a youth slender as a winter-bare sapling and as dangerous as the kiss of frost upon spring's first blossoms turned upon him, staff held at the ready and voice as sharp as the cracking of ice.

"You! Wizard! I hope _you_ have a better explanation for why my Nicholas was allowed to be _stabbed_! I'll not have it! If I need send you down, back to Atlantis — _I'll not have it!_"


	42. preacher

In The Silence

~42~

Having an excess of time, or so Rachel claims — though Jack has never truly seen her idle — the woman has discovered through much trial and error that he can handle an item as often as he wishes as long as Thaddeus _gives_ it to him first. Or if an item is lost and he's the first to find it, he can sometimes pick it up, as long as the item is small and of little importance. And this discovery, which Rachel takes great pride in, has led to the day's lesson — and much frustration on both their parts. For Rachel has decided to _add_ to Jack's usefulness — and is teaching him how to crochet.

He'd much rather be outside playing with the children. Or spreading frost pictures across the neighbors' windows. Barring that, he'd _almost_ rather be cleaning Rachel's floors, for that chore at least included plenty of water and the opportunity to skate about the room should he _accidentally_ ice over his work. But Rachel is smiling in quiet contentment as she slowly rocks back and forth in her chair set close to the fire, and Jack finds he has little desire to deny her the opportunity to teach.

_Nesting,_ Thaddeus had confided in him the night before with a daft grin brightening his face, but Jack's seen no signs of twigs or gathered down — only exceptional quantities of yarn growing exponentially from the wicker basket Rachel keeps her projects in.

He has a crochet hook, a slender wand of skillfully carved bone, and he finds that it fits nicely into his pocket beside Aster Bunny. And he's taken Rachel's instruction on how to loop the yarn about the hook; he's watched her start a blanket, then had stared with amazement as she pulled a single string and unraveled the entire piece. He has his own messily rolled ball of coarse red yarn; Sarah's if he's not mistaken, and as he compares his work to what the small girl's left behind in her rush to follow her brother out to play, he begins to feel discouragement. He can cover a lake in frost delicate as lace in seconds — but apparently a simple chain stitch is beyond his ability.

With a fierce grimace he freezes the yarn, but a rueful giggle escapes him at Rachel's amused snort.

"You'll get the hang of it, lad," she says as the blanket once again takes shape upon her lap. "All it takes is time, and I've a hunch you have time and enough to spare. Or am I mistaken in thinking you had a hand in my sister's unexpected acquaintance with a snow bank?"

Aware that she can see him in the mirror, Jack schools his expression to one of surprised concern. "A snow bank? Poor, _poor_ woman. You can hardly blame _me_ for her misfortune, though. People slip on ice all the time; my help is rarely needed." And though he struggles to maintain the facade, a tattling grin breaks past enforced solemnity. "How she screeched! The whole village heard her, and came out to see her kicking at air! A few had the misfortune of seeing even _more_ — until she had the sense to _stop_ kicking."

Rachel can _see_ his naughtiness in all its reflected glory; sees his laughter and his reenactment of her sister's plight, but instead of scolding him she allows a hint of satisfaction to lurk at the corners of her upturned mouth. "Indeed," she says in agreement, setting aside her crochet and resting her hands across her stomach. "I only hope you take _some_ care in choosing the victims of your pranks. Some of us — wouldn't handle the fall quite as well."

[I am careful] he reassures her, settling back in _his_ chair after reaching out to write upon the mirror. "Careful enough. Haven't caused a twisted ankle in years. —Rachel," he holds out an icy length of tangled yarn, "could you show me again? I tried undoing it, but all it did was _knot_. And not even the simplest spells are working; as far as I can figure, the _yarn_ is doing a better job not believing than I'm doing at believing — because this is the strongest spell of _be not_ I've ever come across."

She's chuckling behind her hand at his failure, and he's grinning back at her because it _is_ funny, his poor, snarled attempt at crocheting. With a shrug, he pulls the hook out of the yarn and uses it instead to snag a thread of pale, winter sunlight falling through the frosted window. It's a gentle warmth between his fingers, and unlike the yarn it moves smoothly from the throat to the working area of the crochet hook then back out. In a matter of seconds he's made a glowing, flickering chain of light and possibility that he proudly holds out to the woman sitting across from him.

"Much easier!" he crows, pleasure in his handiwork only enhanced by the knowledge that he's _cheating_. He was, after all, supposed to use yarn — not _light_ — for his project, but the yarn had been _difficult_ to hold; had kept slipping through his fingers, and light was ever so much prettier. _Snowlight_, he thinks, would be prettiest of all, and he has a sudden urge to leave the house and rush east to the edge of night to attempt making a blanket of moonlight shining off snow.

He's already standing, but Rachel is standing as well, standing with trembling fingers catching at the chain he's created. "Jack," she whispers, letting the chain coil in the palm of her hand like a sunbeam coming to rest through an open knot in one of the house's wooden boards. "It's beautiful, lad. So fine; finer than a single hair; it has no weight, but I can feel the warmth of it... How—"

Sudden knocking at the front door interrupts her and they both turn to look, no matter that there's nothing to be seen. Rachel's brow furrows as she tucks the chain into her apron pocket, snapping the slender thread that had connected it to the sunlight that had given it birth. Jack _feels_ the break as a tiny pinch at the back of his neck but he shrugs off the discomfort, much more interested in who might be visiting. Rachel _never_ has visitors while Thaddeus is out, not even her sister, who was much happier berating her kin from the comfort of her own disordered home.

"Goodness!" With deft hands Rachel checks the presentability of her braid and soothes the wrinkles from her skirts before opening the door to the unexpected guest. "Why, Pastor Allens..." There's a _lack_ of welcome in her voice that piques Jack's curiosity, but it's Rachel's obscured gesturing of the hand held behind her back that garners his attention. She _wants_ something from him, that much he can understand — and catching his reflection in the mirror, he nods in understanding and perches instead on the window sill, out of the mirror's silvered view. "...What brings you by?"

"A good day to you, Mrs. Burgess," a man says, his voice mild with an accent Jack's unfamiliar with. "I was simply out for a walk, enjoying the break in the weather — and since your family doesn't attend services I thought it would only be neighborly to stop by and see how you are faring this winter. —Might I come in?"

"You might," Rachel answers, though her tone implies that she would much prefer _not_. With a quick look over her shoulder to the mirror, she opens the door fully and steps aside to let the man enter. Her mouth twists as she closes the door; twists as though biting back bitter words, and what finally comes out is a strained, "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"Delighted."

Jack stares at the nondescript man as he walks across the room and sits in _Jack's_ chair; glares at the man with his sandy-colored hair and patchy beard and stooped shoulders as he accepts a cup of tea from Rachel; smirks as the man takes a sip only to find the tea's gone completely cold. There's puzzlement in the man's grey eyes as well as deep consideration, and his lips purse as he takes another, longer sip.

"Iced tea," Rachel shrugs carelessly, stuffing the half-finished blanket back into the wicker basket before joining the man at the table. "Old family tradition."

"It is certainly —different." The man sets the cup on the table upon its saucer, and his attention is caught by the brightly blooming flower resting in a chipped glass half-filled with water. "I say..." Reaching out, he runs a fingertip along small, velvety petals. "Bluebells! In December! Fresh cut, if I'm to judge. Mrs. Burgess, I simply _must_ know how you've managed a living bouquet at this time of the year. Why, I'm tempted to call it a miracle!"

There's a blankness to Rachel's gaze that scares Jack, and he knows _her_ fear has something to do with the flowers he's given her. He _knows_ the bluebells are out of season; they're of spring as he's of winter, and this _man_ of no exceptional qualities has taken issue with them. Jack has never wanted to cause Rachel trouble; he _likes_ Rachel, as he _likes_ Thaddeus; they're _family_ and Jack knows a person must always, _always_ do their best by family. So with a leap he leaves the window sill, and with a sweeping wave of his hand as he flips over the table he creates a thin layer of air so _cold_ and so _dry_ that all moisture is immediately pulled from the flowers.

"Fresh?" With a forced laugh, Rachel touches one of the blossoms; though slight, the pressure is enough to crumble the brittle flower to fragrant dust. "I'm afraid you're mistaken." Another laugh, buoyant with relief, as she toys with the other blooms until nothing is left but frost-darkened stems. "As you can see, they're nothing more than dried flowers. Oh, I do admit they're startlingly life-like; it takes a certain skill—"

"Old family tradition?" Something dark passes across the man's face as he rubs floral dust between his thumb and index finger. "Mrs. Burgess. May I call you Rachel?" Without waiting for her permission the man stands, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched tightly as though warding off some dreadsome blow. "—Rachel. Surely you're aware of the stories your son Theodore has been telling. Stories of some wayward spirit your husband has conjured—"

"Jack." Standing as well, Rachel looks far more intimidating than the perspiring man in front of her. "The _spirit's_ name is _Jack_. Let us not deal in rumor and implied subtleties, preacher. Teddy's been babbling his fool head off about Jack. Jack takes all his father's attention, and Jack receives presents that rightfully should have been his; Jack is a better student, and Jack's allowed out at night; I have _heard_ all of my son's complaints — and you are here, why?"

"Because your husband's madness is obviously affecting the entire family! _Or so I believed..._" The man rubs at his face, an act that does no kindness to his beard. "There is _something_ about this town; I felt it first upon entering and my misgivings have only grown since fall gave way to winter. Your sister was the first to point out to me the — unusual — nature of your windows; windows that frost from the _inside_. Windows that bear the oddest messages—"

"So the children like to practice their lessons on the windows! I fail to see where that is either yours or my sister's business!" Fisted hands are pressing new wrinkles into Rachel's skirts, but her back remains unbowed as she stands firm against the man's insinuations. "She is a busy-body, my sister is, and she followed us out here because she's never accepted the simple truth that _I_ chose Thaddeus as much as Thaddeus chose _me_." With a defiant shake of her head she dismisses her sister as trivial.

"Yes, my husband sees a child. A boy. _Jack._ The lad comes with the winter and leaves in the spring. But he's a _good_ boy, and there's no harm in him."

"_Apparently._" With an ink-splotched finger the man points at the mirror, where frost has melted to nothing more than thin condensation — yet the earlier message remains in dry, childish letters while the rest of the surface is filmed in moisture.

[I am careful]

"Which one of your children is responsible for _that_, Mrs. Burgess?" he asks as red blotches across his cheeks and forehead; as a shake like palsy sets into his hands. "I tell you — this is a haunted place, and something — something _foul_ has attached itself to your family, as you were the first settlers in this hostile land—"

"First? Hardly!" There are fiery sparks in Rachel's eyes and she advances as if planning to attack. In case she _does_, Jack moves in front of her; he's not sure _what_ he can do against the blustering, angry, _frightened_ man but to keep Rachel _safe_ — he's willing to do most anything. Anything at all — even as Snowflake stirs, awakened by his turmoil. "There was a village here before; Thaddeus found the graves, then later the remains of cabins—"

"Godless outcasts murdered by savage heathens, no doubt!" the man yells, his fear transforming into less humiliating wrath. "As godless as yourselves!"

"This is _Pennsylvania_, you fool! Thaddeus and I are _strong_ in our faith — and _you_ are very much in the minority, _Pastor_ Allens." Her voice is a hiss, deep and threatening, and Jack can't help but respond by leaching all heat from the house; _pulls_ against the fabric of the world until his staff glows a brilliant, pure blue that causes the furniture to cast odd, dark shadows as their solidly built forms block the outpouring of radiance.

But the man cannot _see_ the light: he only sees darkness appear out of nowhere. Pitch black shadows that puddle and pool and _reach_ with grasping tendrils that have him throwing up his arms in alarmed defense. _Needed_ defense, as a ragged edge of ice builds on his shirt sleeves; ice sharp enough to cut yet cold enough that the wound might never bleed.

"Jack!" Rachel cries out in astonishment, for while she cannot see the light directly the mirror reflects it back until her eyes are dazzled by the glow. And her cry comes out as a white, puffing cloud of frozen breath though she herself is as comfortably warm as if she were seated next to the fire and not standing next to the slowly opening front door. "Lad, at ease!" she tells him, and finally her posture relaxes as she catches sight of her husband's worried, brown eyes peering in through the crack between the door and its frame. "It's all right, child. The preacher is leaving — and Thaddeus is here."

"Aye," Thaddeus says as he walks into his home, quickly taking in the stiff, fearful stance of Allens and the equally stiff but entirely _outraged_ Jack standing protectively in front of his wife; Jack, blazing the clear, warning blue of the heart of a flame, with his staff held out diagonally as both warning and shield; Jack, with a golden glow seeping through his white shirt directly over his heart, illuminating the silly, gangly body of the rag rabbit stuffed into the coat's breast pocket as though it were some holy relic — but Thaddeus isn't inclined to laugh. "I've come home, for Sarah fetched me, saying Teddy's been telling tales again. And what's this I find? Allens, I do think you've failed in propriety, inviting yourself in to my _home_ when you knew well and good I was helping the Buchers."

Lowering ice-clad arms, Allens shakes his head as though awakening from some horrid nightmare. "Accuse me of impropriety, while you consort with devils? I am a man of God!"

"You are **bad**." Shaking with reaction, Jack clutches his staff to his chest as he releases the power he'd gathered; power that joins with his shadow overhead; power that urges the Wind to wail with the first warnings of impending blizzard. "He's _bad_, Thaddeus. He scared Rachel! And he's a shadow; he took truths — and twisted them into lies. He _lies_, Thaddeus..."

Unable to hold back his sorrow, Jack hides his face in his hands — and sobs. "My children were _good_, Thaddeus. They weren't — weren't _godless_; they _sang_, and I wanted to sing with them. They were good, and Rachel is _good_ and I'm not, not _foul_! Make him _**leave**_, Thaddeus. _Please_."

"Best if you were going now," Thaddeus tells the man, giving his back a firm push to get him moving. "You've upset my wife, you've upset my household — and you've most certainly managed to upset me. You've riled up winter itself, and you might want to make all due haste to your cabin before the storm prohibits travel entirely. _Trust me_, Allens — winter will _kill_ a man here, if the insult's grave enough. And you've crossed that line, truly you have, and you can _thank_ that kind soul you've been disparaging, thank him for withholding his temper — otherwise the whole village would suffer your misdeeds."

"Think you to _hide_ this?" the man snarls, refusing to be pushed out the door. "Frost indoors and cut flowers blooming in winter? Demonic messages upon your mirror and unnatural prosperity while your neighbors founder? I will tell all the town, Thaddeus Burgess; tell them of your unholy pact!"

"_You will NOT!_"

The command is Thaddeus' and Jack's both; conjoined will of a man grown and a star child; belief of a husband in mortal fear for his family — and a child that was only beginning to understand what a family _is_. The command is a spell, a spell of _not believing_ that gains power from an adult's steady, encompassing love and from a frost child's raging shadow — and something else. The command is a _possibility_ granted existence, a gift from an ancient relic made whole, and what neither man nor boy could accomplish together the Star Pendant willingly completes.

_'Goodness,_' Snowflake murmurs as gold suffuses the room. _'I had no idea we could do that, Jack boy.'_

Allens blinks gold-struck eyes as he slumps against the wall, his mouth slack and his mind blank. "Burgess?" he asks, scratching at his beard in confusion. "Weren't — weren't you over at the Buchers'? Wasn't I... I... I'm terribly sorry." Neither blinking nor rubbing removes the hazy dazzle from his vision. "The last thing I remember is trying to help Theodore find one of his lost marbles, and he wished to talk about — something. There was something..." The shudder that runs through him goes unnoticed and no one finds it prudent to mention that the only thing keeping the man standing is the wall. "...Mrs. Burgess? —Was there something that you needed?"

"Oh." Rachel _sees_ the soft golden glow soaking into the room, _sees_ and smiles in soft wonder. "It wasn't much. But you will speak with my sister, won't you, Pastor Allens? Over the unseemliness of her gossiping?"

"Of course. Of course." Allens nods agreeably as he slides out the door. He takes one staggering step before he steadies himself on the porch railing and smiles back in bemusement. "I'll make it a priority. Good day to you both!" he nods again as he turns his coat collar up against the swirling snow; the shriek of blizzard has given way to the rich silence of soft, heavy snowfall, as though the weather itself has forgotten its purpose. And they can hear the man singing as he stumbles out into the dissipating storm, a song currently popular in the tavern — singing it with great enthusiasm, and greatly off key.

"Och, my heart," Thaddeus says as he closes the door, "what a dreadful business! Rachel, Jack, have either of you taken harm?"

"No." Rachel's voice is quiet; spent; she sits down in her rocking chair before a fleeting weakness betrays her. "You got home in time, husband. Praise be Sarah found you when she did. I do admit, having told that preacher to leave I was at a loss on how to actually _force_ him out. —Though I think Jack had some idea..." Pulling her shawl around her shoulders, Rachel stares at the glimmering, gold-speckled room — and rocks. "It's like — some long-forgotten dream in here. What did you do, Thaddeus? What mad wizardling's spell did you cast?"

"Me? My dearest, I truly think I had little to do with — this." As if to prove his point Thaddeus sweeps his fingers through the air, leaving behind swirling trails of luminescent vapor while gold sparkles from his fingertips before fading away. "I do believe Jack may be our culprit; he looked so desperate in your defense, Rachel. Had Allens dared take one step closer to you, I fear I might have walked in on... well... How _are_ you, child?" he asks, then with a bit of worry showing, "Jack?"

Jack smiles up at the man from where he's collapsed in _his_ chair; smiles and yawns as he holds Aster Bunny close, rubbing his chin against incredibly soft ears. "M'kay, Thaddeus," he slurs, tilting his head back to let gold brush against closed eyelids. "Just tired... Never tried anything like that, before. Didn't know we could..."

He's ready to sleep, sleep to the dissipating glow of dust like Dreamsand, only — more so. Snowflake is already dreaming such dreams as moonbeams have, and he can see them, touch them, make them his own. A dream of children playing in the snow; snowball fights and snowmen built—

—and he's making a snow angel, laying peacefully in fine, powdery snow while looking up towards the Moon. He's making a one-winged angel, for his other hand is clasped tightly in another's, and he turns his head and grins at his first general of winter. Grins, and squeezes the familiar fingers hidden within their yarn mittens.

"Still playing, huh?" he asks; thrills as she sits up and smiles brighter than Moon, a smile only for him.

_"Still playing tricks, huh?"_ she quips in return, snuggling down into the snowdrift to rest her head upon his shoulder.

"You know it." Something had been troubling him, calling out his name, but it's a distant worry as he traces the outline of his girl-child's face. He knows it by heart, but it fills him with joy to _see_ it once again. "I miss you," he admits, resting his cheek against her nut-brown hair.

_"Oh, Jack."_ Her mitten rests over his heart. Over Snowflake. Over Aster Bunny. And mittened hand, relic, and rag doll — _all_ are part of his _self_. _"I missed you terribly. So very much. But time isn't the same, over here. I hardly need wait for your visits. You do realize,"_ she chides, and he can feel her lips quirk into a knowing yet loving smirk, _"that most people only make this trip once."_

"Hmm?" The stars overhead are unfamiliar; constellations dance with each other against the vast velvet darkness of the sky. "Everyone dreams."

_"You call this dreaming because you know no difference. And I'm grateful. Jack..."_ She leans up to look at him, and while her elbow digs into his side he can't help but laugh — for _every_ sensation, every _touch_ is cherished. _"Will you be staying long?"_

He wants to stay forever, but in this place only truth is ever spoken. "Not long. I think — I left something important behind."

_"Not long, then, will have to be long enough."_ With a gleeful shout she jumps to her feet; her hand entangled in his coat pulls Jack up as well. _"We're going to play hopscotch! Like we play every day."_

"Hopscotch?"

_"It's all right,"_ she assures him as she tugs him towards the cabins in the distance, where children run, and laugh, and _play_. _"I'll teach you. It's as easy as one... two..."_

"And three?"

He's not sure why a tear rolls down her face, a tear of starlight and pearl. Neither is he sure why _he's_ crying — but his general of winter has caught him up in a hug...

_And the tears of a frost child will always melt away into merriment._

~o~

_**End notes:**__ Yay for, erm... 'I see dead people' Jack! o.O Annnd, why the title of this part may be _preacher_ — this actually _isn't_ the confrontation I warned y'all about. 'Cause, y'all realize, right, that Teddy's still out there, stirring up trouble? Yup, y'all knew that._

_(And I do so hope people have been paying heed to the fact that, up to this point, _no one_ has ever physically harmed Jack — and certainly not on purpose. Mmm, and I just want to reassure everyone that it's not going to be the preacher, or the town, that breaks this trend. Why, even Pitch at his worst stuck to mind games. Cruel mind games — but the only _hand_ he put on Jack was his kind, _human_ hand.)_

_Beta provided by _Kaylessa_! Thank goodness she's around to catch booboos. I know I sometimes forget to give her credit — so when I remember, she needs triple credit! Yay! (Okay, she gets triple exclamation marks instead... but those are neat, too, aren't they?)_

_Many grateful, Peeps-filled thanks to _whylime, Bookworm Gal, Guest, Kaylessa, Yue Hikari, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Breezyfeather, hisokauzumaki, Sakon76, Hunter-Re, Fumus000, blackkyu, Twilight Cardmistress, DragonflyonBreak, oceanlover4evr, MisteryMaiden, paracuties, DragonsFlame117, ThatOneFan, Dragowolf, RandomKrazyPerson, Alana-kittychan, bookworm, Anne Camp, amba gurl, Eternal She-Wolf, Crystal Peak, Rahar Moonfire, Noname, Guest, !A4E!, Hannah, hi, ForeverWillEnd, help, dizappearingirl,_ and _UVNight_ for their reviews. You are all amazing! =D Some anonymous reviewers might be mentioned twice, though, if they used different names ^^;; It's okay, I love all reviews!_

_:D Looks like we're approaching another lucky review number soon. Within the next, say, four parts... It's not the thousandth review — although that will be absolutely amazing to get._

_I'm so happy everyone liked Aster Bunny! There is _planned_ certain other Guardians' reactions to Jack's secret friend, but those are quite a ways off. Hopefully next part will finally, _finally_ finish off Christmas. How I do hope._

_And, since several people wanted to see the tea party, here's _**a**_ tea party — but perhaps not the one everyone was expecting! -huggles- Wishing you all a wonderful week._

~o~

He sits on the floor at a short, square table, a mismatched teacup and saucer in front of him. To his left sits Rose, a rather regal porcelain doll with eyes painted green as the first shoots of grass in spring, wearing a dress of lace and creamy satin. To his right sits Bethy, the yellow of her embroidery floss hair faded and frizzed — and in places carefully replaced with new floss bright as the feathers of a canary's wings. Across from him sits Ruth, her merry, brown eyes nearly hidden behind the brim of her grandmother's second-best hat and her little-girl body hidden within swaths of embroidery-stiff silk.

_He remembers finding the silk, so many years ago, left upon an alter open to the Wind — and him. He remembers the way it felt as he draped it across his shoulders, as he _accepted_ winter's tribute. And he remembers Rachel's smile when he'd given it to her, her smile as shy and grey as a mourning dove yet still willing to believe in wonder._

"Would you like a cookie?" Ruth asks, holding a plate out to Bethy. The plate, still beautiful despite the crack running through it, holds nothing but air — and the fruits of a child's imagination. "And you?" she adds, extending the plate across the table.

"Don't mind if I do." He mimes taking a cookie, then two more for good measure before she pulls the plate out of easy reach. "Delicious," he says as he pretends to eat; it's easy to pretend with the smell of baking _kruidnoten_ wafting through the house. The teacup is filled with water which he sips as Rose is offered her share of the snacks.

"Oh, it's no bother," Ruth giggles, and Jack wonders what one of the dolls could have said to provoke such a response. Sometimes, he wonders if the dolls are like _him_. Other times, _darker_ times, he wonders if he's like the dolls. Lately, he's had trouble as years pass and memories fade, no matter how often he thinks on them. There are times, so many _times_ lately when he wonders if he's nothing more than another of Ruth's dolls; that he moves, and talks, and _lives_ only in a little girl's imagination.

He hopes not. He hopes there's no little girl so desperately unhappy as to imagine something like him.

"Ruthie, dear," a woman calls in a voice brittle with age — but still fair. Still lovely. Heavy footsteps sound on the stairs, then a woman stands at the doorway to the room, stands bent over a cane with her long, loose braid of grey hair draped over her shoulder — and smiles a worn, yellow, _beloved_ smile. "What are you up to, sweetling?"

"A tea party, Baba," Ruth chirps, setting down the broken plate. "Have you come to join us?"

"No, little one. I'm busy baking for your Gran' Papa's birthday." Though her tone is serious the old woman's smile never falters. "So I do hope you don't fill up on cookies. Who all have you invited to tea, dear?"

"Oh, Rose, of course." Beaming back at the old woman, Ruth pulls the other doll, the one with embroidery floss hair, out of its small, wooden chair and into her lap. "And Bethy. Mama says you played with Bethy when you were a little girl, Baba."

"So I did," the old woman nods, taking a step into the room with the help of her cane. "Why, I used to have tea parties myself; only it was me and Molly as well as Bethy, and..."

"Cousin Jack!" Ruth gestures across the table and lets go of Bethy by mistake. Jack catches the doll with ease and carefully settles it back in its chair, taking his time so he need not see whatever expression might be crossing the woman's face.

"...and cousin Jack."

He _has_ to look up; he can't ignore the _hope_ in her voice. "Hello, Sarah," he greets her, brushing his fingers against the back of her hand, leaving behind the faintest dusting of frost.

"It's always fun when he comes to play, because _boys_ never want to come to tea parties, but cousin Jack is the best!" With exuberance common to the cherished young, Ruth flings her arms — gently, gently — around her grandmother's waist. "Even if he only came for Gran' Papa's birthday, he doesn't mind make-believing with me. Although," she lowers her voice to what she believes is a whisper, "I do think he was hoping for real _kruidnoten_. Might I go check on the baking, Baba? It would be a shame, should the cookies burn."

"You do that, Ruthie," Sarah says, patting the girl's shoulder as she rushes around her. "You do that..." Staring down at the child's table she blinks — a rapid flicker of lashes over once-dark eyes grown pale with age — then slowly, with much hesitation, she lowers herself to the floor. "It's been so long since we've last had tea... Jack." Cradling a chipped teacup between both hands, Sarah lifts it to her lips and sips at the icy water inside.

"Sarah." Gallantly he offers her the cracked plate, and her hands tremble as she sets down the cup. Tremble, but go through the motions of taking an imaginary cookie from the plate and placing it upon her saucer. "It's been too long."

"It's been too long," she echoes him unknowingly, and her tremble stills as he places his cool hand over hers. "Papa said you'd be back for his birthday. Nearly swore to it." She's blinking again, and Jack thinks it might be tears she's trying to hide, but her smile is the very same one she'd graced him with when she'd been seven years old. "He's been telling the children tales of their cousin Jack for weeks, now. —He'll be so happy to see you."

Sometimes, he wonders if he's a lost fragment of someone else's dream. Other times, _dark_ times, he wonders if he's some jagged remnant of someone else's nightmare. And then there are the times, those infrequent, longed-for times, when he can sit with his family over tea and cookies...

...and pretend.

And he lets it be enough, to face another spring.


	43. careful

In The Silence

~43~

Jack is dreaming. Or perhaps he isn't. Sometimes it's hard to tell, and other times he cannot tell at all. He's playing in the snow — as he always plays — and children are playing with him; it's just that they seem focused more on each other and only the occasional snowball is flung his way, so there is a chance that he's awake. It's an _awake_ type of play, with the children in the distance and him off to the side, off by himself, set off by the smallest of margins from the rest of the world. It's not a feeling he likes but it's one he's grown used to, and even unpleasant things can bring comfort with their familiarity.

Jack isn't dreaming. Or perhaps he is. Because while snowflakes have always tasted sugary upon his tongue he doesn't remember them smelling like cinnamon or filling his mouth with the taste of cloves and citron. He then realizes: snowflakes are cookies baked in the bellies of clouds, and the valleys of the earth are great mixing bowls... so the Wind must be the long handled wooden spoon that beats flour and sweetening and butter into dough.

Does that make him the baker? He can certainly bring snow; bring it in drifts and flurries and blizzards of crystalline cookies shaped as spindly stars. He's not sure he likes that idea; _Rachel_ is the baker of the household. He frowns, for he's Rachel's helper, not her replacement. Besides, he doesn't want to wear an apron — even if he _is_ wearing one, with Aster Bunny peeking up from the long pocket sewn along the front.

Jack is dreaming. He is most certainly dreaming as he pulls off the apron from over his head and tosses it to the ground where it breaks into a thousand different words, but each and every one is [careful]. He scoffs at them; a swing of his staff has reduced them to cookies, sweetly steaming in the frigid air, and dozens of children — laughing, bright-buttoned-eyed children with crocheted chains of sunlight for smiles — rush forward to stuff cinnamon snowflakes into their pockets and he joins in the activity until his pockets are full of frozen cookies.

He blinks drowsily, inordinately pleased with himself, for _that_ was a dream. He's fairly certain it was a dream as he shifts his shoulders under the weight of his coat before lifting his arms in a stretch that cracks his spine. To be certain, he checks his pockets to make sure they're free of snowflakes — and Snowflake giggles.

_'Welcome back, Jack boy,'_ the moonbeam says, golden glow muted to the merest glimmer of light. _'Pleasant dreams?'_

"Thought so," he says, vindicated. "I didn't think snowflakes were cookies... although wouldn't that be amazing? They weigh more than snow, though. Or rain. Maybe people wouldn't like cookies falling down on them. The plants wouldn't; it would be hard for them to drink _pepernoten_ up through their roots, don't you think? Trees like water, and snow looks prettier on their branches than cookie crumbs ever could."

Giggles turn to full-fledged burbling laughter and Snowflake agrees. _'Truly it is for the best that storms bring moisture and not cookies. Although _anything_ is possible.'_

And the knowledge unveils itself to Jack, that it _could_ rain cookies — at least once. If he wished it hard enough, _wanted_ it enough, there isn't anything in all of creation that isn't possible _once_. It's _there_, a sliver of fact like a frozen flame dull enough to slice reason to ribbons. Once upon a time, someone wanted all things dark and unpleasant locked away out of sight. Once, so very long ago, the person had been granted their wish. Granted their foolish, mistaken wish; evil had been caged, out of sight but not, no no _not_ out of hearing. Not out of _mind_. And so darkness reentered the universe—

_and the stars rejoiced, for their lover the Void had been locked away as well_

—never to be recaptured, for while all things are possible... there are no do-overs. No second chances. Not even a Star Pendant turned Snowflake can achieve the impossible _twice_. So if Jack wanted cookies to fall from the sky as hail, he'd best save his wish for a particularly spectacular prank, for he'd only be able to do it once.

"Well..." he ponders as he stretches again, pushing the heels of his feet hard against the wooden planks making up the floor. "What if I _named_ the type of cookie I wanted? Then I'd have _lots_ of chances!"

Snowflake's laughter turns into howls of mirth and Jack smirks at his cleverness. "Yeah. Thought so." Satisfied that he'd chased the stiffness from his limbs he stands and surveys the room. While it _is_ his chair he'd awaked in, the room is Thaddeus' and Rachel's. It's _their_ room with the heavy, oak bedstead he remembers from the cabin, and while the quilt upon the straw tick is unfamiliar, the evenness of the stitches and sturdiness of construction point towards it being Rachel's work. He pats the quilt as he walks past; pats the carved oak headboard and the walls and the door he leans against as he peers out into the room beyond; pats objects as friends while he feathers them lightly with frost.

"What am I doing here?" he asks his moonbeam as he rubs golden grains of Dreamsand from his eyes. "I'm not supposed to go into their room, but my _chair_ is here... Why was I sleeping in my chair? I can sleep on Sandman's cloud, or on his island; the lady can make me sleep. She's done so before. But I've never fallen asleep on my own... And my chair isn't that comfortable. Not really. What _happened_, Snowflake?"

_'We cast a spell, Jack boy. Or broke one. I'm not sure. I've never done either before. It took much to persuade the man. —He _wanted_ to believe there was no harm to be found; easy enough, for there is no harm, but there was something _else_, frost child. Something to be wary of. There's no harm in us, but something _did_ harm the man. Somewhere in the village, some_thing_ in the village...'_ A moonbeam's sigh is a scattering of pearlized light. _'There is a power that opposes Thaddeus. Opposes _us_. I do not know. I just don't know. Shadows do not cast shadows, and yet...'_

"...We broke a spell on Pastor Allens?"

_'Or cast one. I hardly know which. Only that it took _power_, yours and mine and Thaddeus' — and even that wasn't enough until the relic itself decided to help. Frost child, I must admit to being scared. Shadows I understand; I was created to seek them out, to _shine_ so they have no place to hide, to grow. But what we faced was a shadow of a different sort. I would keep you safe, Jack boy, if only I knew what we were against. The King of Nightmares is in town, but this isn't his work. Not this.'_

He bites his lip, uncertain. He can still smell cinnamon in the air. Surely bad things couldn't occur around the enticing smell of Rachel's baking. Could they? "_Was_ Mister Allens a bad man?" He hopes his Snowflake moonbeam knows, because he doesn't. He _thought_ he did, but this talk of shadows behind shadows has worry tightening in his gut and he takes a deep breath to dispel the tension. "Did I do right? Or wrong?"

_'Defending those you care about is never wrong, even if it may not be right. Oh, it's terribly confusing. Just as a man, _any_ man, can be good and bad both. What's important, I think, is the outcome. Rachel is safe, and the shadowed man is _safe_ and no longer shadowed, and _we're_ safe — now that we've napped.'_

"Are you sure Rachel's safe?" Jack peers once more through the doorway before cautiously stepping through to the warm, welcoming room beyond. "I don't see her; why would Rachel leave her baking if nothing was the matter?"

Although no longer laughing there's amusement threaded through Snowflake's voice. _'Now I know we've discussed this before, Jack boy. Do you remember? How sometimes people must leave their homes for... _necessity_?'_

"Oh." He _does_ remember the conversation. He remembers mortification and the strong urge to _deny_ such, such _unnatural_ behaviors in those he — cares about. Only his moonbeam had assured him the process was _completely_ natural and to be expected several times each day. And there had been that horrible, _wretched_ morning when Teddy had melted his name smugly into the pristine snow Jack had brought the night before.

He winces, and allows a shudder of disgust to run through his frame. Teddy might have once been his child but now that the chain is no longer in the boy's possession Jack can _choose_ who is _his_ — and Teddy most certainly _isn't_. It's been ages since Teddy's formed a snowball or built a snow fort; he spends his time inside the homes of friends playing marbles or knucklebones or even dabbling in games of chance involving dice if the supervising adult's attention is elsewhere. Teddy, in Jack's opinion, is no longer _fun_ and that's the greatest condemnation he knows.

_But the boy loves his little sister; takes care of her; cherishes her — and that counts for something, some leniency on Jack's part. He cannot mislike the boy entirely, when Teddy dotes upon Sarah. They might fight upon occasion, but that's what siblings do, and then the boy will take the girl's hand — and all is as it should be. Little sisters should have big brothers, that's just the way the world should work._

There's voices outside the house, _known_ voices, and the front door opens, Thaddeus holding it for Rachel as the woman makes her way inside. "There, my heart," the man says with somewhat forced jovialness, "all's well and good. A bit of sickness is to be expected, and you've been busy hovering over the heat of the oven all morning. The baking will wait; did I not say it? But you, my dear, my lovely stubborn woman, would hear nothing of it! Oh no, says you! The Christmas baking will not wait! Well now, wait it shall whilst you sit a spell and I'll fix you a nice cup up."

"I don't hover," Rachel snaps back, wiping at her face with the corner of her shawl. "You hover, man. Always about in my business. Although the cold air _did_ help," she concedes somewhat less than graciously as she slowly moves towards her rocking chair. Before the mirror she pauses to tuck a straying strand of hair behind her ear, and it's then she catches sight of Jack. "Lad! You're up!"

"Jack's awake?" Jerking his head up from the task of closing the door, Thaddeus spots him. Sees him and breaks out in a grin dazzling in its brightness; bright as a moonbeam, and no shadow would dare linger in its presence. "Why, so you are! Child, you had us worried! You just nodded out on us like a guttered candle; who would imagine a spirit could sleep? —And I couldn't wake you." There's a flicker in his smile, a brief dimming; there's at least _one_ shadow that refuses to be chased away — but Jack would like to _try_.

"It's okay, Thaddeus." A gentle tap with his staff frosts the mirror over and he writes in letters that want to wobble [I sleep some times]. He has better _penmanship_ — such an _odd_ term that Rachel uses to describe the act of writing — but as his fingers form the letters he remembers the thousand [careful] words from his dream and it startles him.

_A thousand carefuls, and he'd disregarded them all._

It is disquieting enough than he scans the room for the smallest hint of _mad yellow_, but there's no sign of Pitch. He thinks there'd be some sign if the Boogeyman were nearby. He _thinks_ he would recognize the Nightmare King's influence — but he's not entirely sure. There's so _little_ that he's sure of anymore... And so he laughs, loud and ringing and _defiant_ of any shadows that might linger in his home. Laughs, and by laughing his own doubts fade.

"Do you now? Ock, I suppose everything must rest, in time." Relief is plain on Thaddeus' face. "I hope you do not mind, child, me moving you to our room; it was a terrible fright seeing Teddy _sit_ in you. **ON** you! That is, Teddy sat in your chair, but you were already _there_, and I've watched you dodge out of people's way in the past, only you were _sleeping_ and Teddy just... He just..."

"I'm quite glad I didn't see it," Rachel adds with a decided green tinge to her features as she sits unsteadily down in her rocker. "And unless you wish to escort me back outside husband, there's little need to keep discussing the unfortunate event."

"Of course, my heart." Shaking his head, a knowing grin seeps into Thaddeus' smile — but _what_ he knows Jack cannot fathom. "So, to prevent another _unfortunate event_ I picked you up chair and all and carried you some place safe. Safer, at least, than at the table. The children know not to enter our room, and in the corner I could keep an eye on you. Not that you did much besides sleep. You're awake now, though, which is _excellent_ timing — despite Rachel's trouble with the baking."

The man's explanation solves the riddle of why he'd been moved, and much like Rachel, Jack would have preferred _never_ knowing Teddy had sat _in_ him for some unspecified amount of time. The idea is gruesome and even if he couldn't blame the boy — how was Teddy to know he was there, if he could not _see_ him? — Jack's more than willing to hold a grudge, and hard feelings, and other such things that worry and amuse Snowflake by turns.

_'The icicles would melt come spring, and who would help Sarah into her coat if you trapped the boy in a cage of ice? Even if he'd go splendidly in an exhibit at _Jardin des Plantes_. How would you get him across the ocean? The Wind is strong, but not _that_ strong.'_

Covering his mouth to hide his laugh, he nods to Thaddeus to let the man know that moving him was fine — and much appreciated. [Thank you] he writes with a flourish, bowing over his staff once he'd finished.

"You're welcome, child. Only..." Thaddeus' smile flickers again, only this time sadness creeps in where before there'd been only joy. Raising his arm, the man uses the sleeve of his coat to wipe the message from the glass, leaving behind only streaks of melting frost. "You must be more careful. —_We_ must be more careful. No more writing on windows. Nor the glass, unless one of us is close enough to quickly wipe it clean. I hadn't realized others had noticed; I hadn't thought they'd gossip on about it... I _should_ have, but I'm so used to people _knowing_ the peculiarities of my family... Do you understand, Jack?"

_Careful_ echoes about the room and resonates with his _self_. _Careful_ is a stifling word, a caution he doesn't want to heed. _Careful_ is hardly _fun_. He doesn't understand: What has he done wrong? What has he _done_ that both his dreams and Thaddeus must warn him? [Punishment?] he asks, then trembles as he waits for an answer.

"No! No, lad!" Rachel denies as she struggles out of her chair. "Not at all! You mustn't think that, Jack." Standing before the mirror she fixes her gaze on his reflection — and the strength of her love steals his breath as it soothes away the _hurt_ he'd barely had the chance to acknowledge. "The town is full of busybodies, is all. People with too much time on their hands and too little soul to know a blessing when they see one. Even I — I denied the evidence before me, but _that_ fault I lay directly at my sister's feet. You are a _blessing_, lad. Absolutely."

"Listen to my heart, child," Thaddeus says as he crosses out [Punishment?] and writes [ruse] below it. "She's not steered me wrong yet." With a thick, calloused finger he underlines the word remaining on the mirror. "Do you know _ruse_, Jack?" Two sets of tense, brown eyes watch as Jack shakes his head in denial. "Ruse is a deception, a game if you will; and the purpose of the game is to convince the good people of this village that their existence is a drab, magic-less one filled with not one ounce of wonder, not a smidgeon of marvel, not a jot of the divine. We'll all of us do our best to _pretend_ — only when there are others around — that we're absolutely _normal_. But when it's just us, just you and me and Rachel, we're _family_, Jack. And we'll not need to pretend forever. Soon enough the villagers will learn what it means to have a Burgess in their midst's. Give it a season or two, and you'll see. I'll be introducing you to our neighbors."

There's a peculiar pensiveness in Thaddeus' voice, _a lack of belief_, that tenses his muscles and Jack wants to _run_ from it. Run and bury himself in the deepest, most golden sands he can find where he can chase a dream that has not a single _careful_ to mock him. He _doesn't_ understand, as he knows he's failed to understand so very many things, but even with Thaddeus' explanation...

_He must have done something wrong. He must have been _terrible_._

Thaddeus is _trying_, trying to convince him that this _ruse_ they ask of him is strictly that — a lie told to others; an exciting prank; a deception. But it feels like a _denial_ to Jack, _of_ Jack — and it's Rachel that deciphers his expression for there are tears in her eyes that she doesn't trouble to hide.

"Oh, lad," she whispers, clenching her hands in the fringe of her shawl. "You break our hearts. Listen to Thaddeus; little will change. Come," she beckons towards the cook stove and the bowls of spicy-sweet dough waiting on the workbench. "Come help me bake, Jack. It's Christmas eve, and we'll have a fine meal tonight. Plenty fine, for the Buchers have asked if Teddy might eat with them this evening — and dine with them he shall."

"That's right!" Slapping his knee, Thaddeus sits at the table and leans back in the chair, crossing his arms in front of him. "It's a holiday. I'll bring us in the perfect little tree and a fine Yule log; there will be so many evergreen branches you'll think you're out in the forest. And we'll enjoy the feast Rachel fixes for us, and I'll read you and Sarah a story tonight. Doesn't that sound grand?"

It does. It _does_ sound grand. And Jack smiles a wavering, sloppy smile as he practices this _ruse_ thing of Thaddeus'. Thaddeus wants him to be happy. Thaddeus wants him to understand. _But he doesn't._ He doesn't understand at all.

This will be the last meal he shares with them. The last time he'll be able to freely communicate without fear of someone discovering his writing. The last the last the last **time** he has with his _family_ and he smiles and _pretends_ happiness for Thaddeus' sake...

...Tonight, while they're sleeping, he'll cry. He can hold out till then. He can. He'll be _careful_.

~o~

_**End notes:**__ And there was a decided lack of yay!_

_For those that do not feel like looking it up, the _Ménagerie du Jardin des Plantes_ is a zoo in Paris and, more importantly, it was founded in 1793 (so it would have been around for Jack to visit lol!). Basically, Jack thinks Teddy should be in the monkey exhibit. He's probably right..._

_Many grateful thanks to _Twilight Cardmistress, Alaia Skyhawk, Clio Ying, ThatOneFan, Kaylessa, Bookworm Gal, RandomKrazyPerson, Eternal She-Wolf, whylime, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, AliceUndergroundWorks, UVNight, AnnLuc, Yue Hikari, Smoochynose, Crystal Peak, Cindar, EJR HorseLady, hisokauzumaki, Imstarfire, DragonsFlame117, !A4E!, XxDarkSongxX, Anne Camp, Breezyfeather, 1valleygirl4, blackkyu, Soshoryu, savedbygrace94, Nefarious Seraph 13, dizappearingirl, DragonflyonBreak, Dragowolf, bookworm, Hannah, paracuties, hi, Go0se, Fumus000, oceanlover4evr_ and _Sora Tayuya_ for their reviews! You guys are some of the greatest folks _ever_. Really._

_And I seem to have seriously over-estimated how long it would take to reach the magical review number of mystery and enchantment! Congrats Fumus000 for being review 1011! If you'd like a drabble, just let me know :D I'll do my best to write it, as long as it's not a future plot-point!_

dizappearingirl:_ Hiya! Proets unite! Yup, Bunny is younger (a whole lot younger) and Aster is older (and there are several versions of him running around). All the Pookas would have been born during the Golden Age or before. Then they go against Pitch. Ouch. Far far in the future, Aster travels _back_ in time, first to create Australia, then further back to rescue his infant self, then drops him off in Australia circa 1600s to grow up. Not quite as far into the future, Aster travels back in time to bug Jack ^_~ Then Bunny and Jack meet up in 1868 (and there's really not much of an age difference between them, huh). Eventually Bunny matures into Aster. And Aster and Jack are the best of friends. ...Then something happens that leads to Aster going back to Atlantis to teach them wizards a thing or three, Atlantis is lost, Aster loses faith in humanity and sequesters himself in the true Warren accessed from Easter Island. Move forward through time to when the books happen. Aster becomes a Guardian for a few years, then tells the others they really need to give his younger self a chance or he might never grow up to be a good person. The Guardians recruit Bunny, and Aster — having sudden inspiration — goes back to the future and fixes whatever problem originally drove him to Atlantis. Lots and lots and _lots_ of time passes — and Aster goes back to the last great Pookan battle to save his infant self. Woooo!_

_I hope everyone has a wonderful day, and that all your vehicles get an extra 6 miles per gallon for the next week. -nods-_


	44. thief

In The Silence

~44~

For all the warmth of the room that night, the heat accumulated from Rachel's baking and the colorful flames of the Yule log that sent spangles of orange light to all corners of the room, Jack is cold. He does not like the sensation. A frost child thrives in frigid temperatures, welcomes ice in all its forms — but there's a _cold_, hard knot in his gut, a _cold_ outside his experience and control, and he doesn't like it. Not at all.

He'd sat at the table this evening; sat and dined with Thaddeus and Rachel; sat and given Sarah his share of sticky-glazed yams. He'd sat at the table and smiled hard enough that his cheeks still ache from the effort involved. He'd sat as Thaddeus read some story of import but Jack hadn't listened; couldn't listen past the panic rushing through his veins and hissing in his ears.

Instead, he'd rested his head upon the table and stared at the small pine serving as a centerpiece. It smelled like a friend, and he'd wondered if it were a child of one of the trees bordering his lake. He didn't know, for Thaddeus had gone out by himself to fetch the evergreen — and he didn't _want_ to know. He would be losing too many friends by the time the evening was over; the loss of one more...

_He did not want to think about it._

Teddy had come home with a gloating smirk and he'd chattered on about the meal he'd shared with the Bucher's and the games they'd played and the songs they'd sung. Jack — would like to sing. He loves the sound of voices woven together in harmonies both complex and simple. He'd _like_ to sing, but there's no one for him to sing _with_; no child with which to blend voices together as hands are held and smiles are shared. He _wants_ to sing, but the sound of his voice _alone_ is too much to bear — and so he doesn't.

The boy had come home... and Jack's exile had begun. His chair was pushed under the table, his plate put away with other dishes that seldom saw use outside of holidays, and the mirror — his only allowable means of communication — was moved to Thaddeus' and Rachel's room. _To keep it safe from the children_ was Thaddeus' explanation, but the man's dark eyes failed to meet his own and Jack had merely nodded; nodded and looked away; looked away and sat in his spot beneath the window with his knees tucked tight underneath his chin and his arms wrapped around them as he sobbed.

_As long as he could keep his tears from falling, they wouldn't _know_. It wasn't as if anyone could _hear_ him crying._

And the family had gone to bed, the children to their room and the adults to theirs, and Jack was left in the front room. Left _inside_ for it wouldn't be _normal_ for Thaddeus to open the front door for a frost child to leave, never mind that — after sleeping for so many days — he had _duties_ that needed attending and other children he needed to visit. He'd been left _alone_ in a way he'd never felt before and the cold, hard tears of a frost child fell to the floor around him. His tears fell, and gleamed golden in the Yule log's light...

_...And did not melt, though the room was sweltering._

"Why?" he asks, and he's not sure if it's to Snowflake, or Aster Bunny, or the Moon he can see peeking in from the corner of the frost-free window. "I — I didn't _do_ anything. Why teach me to write and make me a chair and give me a _home_ if I wasn't... wasn't... Why _**do**_ that if it was wrong to do so? Why make me think..."

Tears fall and fail to melt, and Snowflake's hum is a broken, hiccupping wail.

~Jack.~ Yellow eyes reflect yellow flames and _burn_ from the corner across the room. ~What's this? A child _crying_ on Christmas? I must say, it fills my pierced heart with joy; but that it's _you,_ dear boy, makes it somewhat of a Pyrrhic victory.~ From the shadows a rat slinks, leaving behind smeared paw prints of pitch. ~Do stop your pathetic lamenting; _fear_ I enjoy but despair is so appallingly _bleak_. No fun at all. That's it. Chin up and _glare_ at me, child.~

He cannot manage a glare; such an expression is beyond him at the moment; he's desperately _glad_ of the Nightmare King's presence. Unlocking his arms from around his legs he sprawls forward, his hands sliding through frozen tears until he's at eye level with the rat. "Why?" he asks again, nose to nose with the one shadow that might tell him the truth — if only to cause him pain. "Why trick me into believing I had a family?"

~It takes so very _little_ for simple misgiving to tip over into fear.~ Whiskers twitch and a tail lashes out, hairless with skin grey as rain clouds. ~And fear called me to this village and has fed me well, but I can promise you, Jack: I did not _cause_ it. By needs we must _share_ this town; the both of us were reborn here, if you will. And my daughter _dotes_ on you so. So I had no plans of causing you trouble, and yet here trouble **is**.~

It's easy to meet the rat's ravenous stare; what is there to fear when all his dreams have already been stolen away? "Snowflake says there's a shadow in the village. Something new, that isn't yours. Have you seen it?"

~Dear, naive _boy_.~ The laughter of a rat bites at the tips of his fingers and crawls along his arms, raising fine, pale hairs in its wake; it forces Jack away, back into a seated position for dread of the laugh staining his hands black. ~I am exclusively _fear_. And while fear casts a glorious shadow there are other things, _darker things_ stalking this world. Greed. Jealousy. _Hate_. Although I do hope it's not hate; that is one emotion even _I_ fear. Fear might eat you alive, but _hate_ will make you _enjoy_ the suffering.~

They're feelings; Jack understands different feelings, but just hearing the names of these particular ones makes him feel queasy; he flinches against the images their mere mention conjures. "Who then is in charge of them? —And what purpose could such feelings possibly serve? I understand fear; fear is _needed_; if a person only walks in light then they're blinded to all dangers. But what does jealousy teach? Or... hate?"

Pitch sits on his haunches, a peculiar look twisting his peculiar rat-face, and when he speaks there's a softness to his voice that reminds Jack of Thaddeus in some indefinable way. ~The masters of such emotions have been banished from this place, a mercy for which even I am grateful. Now — mankind brings them upon itself. Each child born makes choices... and far too many make _wrong_ choices. Perhaps if I were stronger fear could hold them back, but as you can see I am forced to act from shadowed corners and the fringes of golden dreams. Instead of holding them back, fear becomes _motivation_ for their darker desires. I have learned to tread lightly — and _here_ I dare not tread at all.~

His tears are hard pebbles beneath his hands — and instead of melting they grow only colder in the blazing warmth of the room. But he has no tears left to shed, for a growing determination has pushed back sorrow. "Then who is it?" Jack asks as he reaches for his staff, reaches with an outstretched arm and his _will_ that pushes back the heat of the fire to the confines of the hearth. "Who casts this _fake_ shadow of hate? Who _dares_?"

~I have my suspicions. Unfortunately, _they_ refuse to act upon _hunches_ unless they come from that infernal man's _belly_.~ There's a _thump_ from the house's roof and a scuffling, sliding sound as disturbed snow cascades past the window to the drift below. ~Be careful, Jack. Be ever so careful, no matter how your nature protests. I must find my daughter; the wretched girl _wanders_ so; I've no clue how long away I might be. _Watch_, frost child, and be afraid. Fear is my gift to you. Use it wisely.~

The rat scurries back to its shadow; blinks _mad yellow regretful_ eyes and disappears before Jack has a chance to climb to his feet. Although cold has driven back the warmth, the light of the Yule log fills the room — and there are no shadows. None at all. But there _is_ a smear of darkness in the form of a rat's paw prints and Jack taps them with the tip of his staff, hardening the oozing pitch into a stain Rachel might never scrub from her floor. _It's for the best_, he tells himself as he climbs to the top of his staff. The Nightmare King had _gifted_ him fear, and perhaps Thaddeus could use some as well.

_Perhaps they _all_ need a reminder that fear cannot be destroyed — but can be lived with._

Jack thinks that, maybe, Thaddeus is ignoring him in the belief that _fear_ will go away. The fear of his neighbors; the spiteful, hurtful fear that Teddy wallows in; the man's own fear that the blessings in his life might be lost. Perhaps some good will come of it when Thaddeus sees the paw prints come morning. _Look, Thaddeus_, Jack would write, if the mirror had not been taken from him. _There's more in this world than one cast-off frost child. There are _other_ things, Thaddeus, and they _won't_ let you ignore them. There is _hatred_ in the village, Thaddeus. There is hatred, and it is growing; hatred thrives on ignorance. Accept your fear, Thaddeus. Only fear can open your eyes to hate. Only _then_ can you deal with it._

_Don't shut me out, Thaddeus. Don't take away my family. I'll defend you. I swear I will. Only _love_ can defeat hate — and all of winter loves you. Don't turn that away, Thaddeus. Please don't._

He would write it; he would warn Thaddeus of the danger — but the man's simplest wish keeps him from writing on the window _and his mirror is gone_. He would write it in ink — but the man has never thought to give him a nib pen... Never thought to, or perhaps decided there was too much risk...

He shakes his head as he glares up at the ceiling where repeated bangs and muffled exclamations have failed to wake the household. He refuses to think so poorly of Thaddeus; such thoughts are the product of fear improperly managed. Pitch has given him fear as a tool and he will use it as such; he won't be _ruled_ by it. He accepts the worry for what it is, his own doubt, his own uncertainty of his place now that he's been regulated to the far fringe of family.

There's a clattering now of something moving, bumping, _forcing_ reality to a new shape. It's a power Jack doesn't quite recognize; a power that brushes a friendly greeting against his own. A power like the gleam in a young child's eyes the first time they catch a snowflake on the tip of their tongue. It's _wonder_ and pride _and it's coming down the chimney_ in the form of a burly man dark of hair with a well-trimmed beard who steps over the flames of the Yule log without hesitation as he swings a hefty sack from off his shoulder.

"_Sinterklaas?_" Jack yelps, and only a hand wrapped firmly around the crook of his staff keeps him from tumbling completely to the floor. Instead, he's left swinging from the hook as he gapes at the man staring back at him in mild annoyance.

"Twelfth time!" the man shouts as he plants large hands against his hips; shouts up and _out_ and the Moon, still nervously peeking in through the window, quickly hides behind Jack's shadow as if the accusation were too much for it. "Twelfth time I've been mistaken for this _Santa Claus_ fellow. Do I _look_ like wizardly town?" he asks Jack, bending over and pointing a thick, calloused finger at his face. "Does this look like face of magic tree?"

"No..." Jack replies hesitantly as he pulls himself back up; having the man crouched _over_ him is — not scary, not _threatening_ — somewhat disconcerting, and he's able to breathe easier now that he has the advantage of height.

"NO!" the man repeats with evident satisfaction. "Sandy was to be making sure all children are sleeping," he says as he straightens, tugging open the wide mouth of his sack and displaying the brightly wrapped packages within. "Is not hard task. Yet twelve times tonight I have been spotted. _Santa Claus_ the little children call me. Me! Nicholas St. North, defeater of Fearlings, wielder of Tsar Lunanoff's sword, wizard of wonder, maker of toys, king of bandits and greatest thief in all the Russias!" He pauses in his rant as he pulls a lovely, fragile dollhouse from his sack and sets it next to the hearth. "For little Sarah. She has been such a good girl this year! Now, where was I..." Fierce blue eyes regard Jack from under dark, lowered brows as a frown tugs at the corners of lips conditioned to smiling. "Right. Why am I being mistaken for this Santa man?"

Pulling Aster Bunny from his pocket, Jack cuddles the stuffed animal _not because he needs comfort_ but because _Aster Bunny_ is worried. Just a little. Maybe just the tiniest amount scared, but Jack's hug is warm and he can tell Aster Bunny appreciates it. "You sneak into houses to leave toys for children?"

"Da." Nodding with agreement, the man — St. North — reaches again into his sack, this time pulling out a lump of drab, dark coal. "And for Theodore; I thought he might make Nice list, but last few weeks... Tsk."

Jack can see a name tag wrapped around the ugly piece of soft rock and he ducks his head behind Aster Bunny's ears to hide the grin that wants to escape at the appropriateness of Teddy's gift. "And you leave coal behind for naughty children?"

"Da." St. North looks down at both dollhouse and coal; looks, then scratches the wiry black hair that's escaped from the sides of his fur-trimmed cap as though confused over something. "Coal is reminder that I have not simply forgotten them. The child knows I _know_ that they've misbehaved; gives incentive for next year."

"You dress all in red — just like Sinterklaas."

"Red is good color! Very practical! Hides blood stains very well!" The man's booming laugh trails off when he finally notices Jack's alarm. "Ha! Is little joke. Maybe not in such good taste, hmm?" As though sensing that Jack's in no way reassured, St. North pulls a chair out from underneath the table and sits with a weary groan. "American children are not so much like children of Santoff Claussen. So many fears. So many concerns that rest heavy on such small shoulders. So little _wonder_ in their lives..." Blue eyes twinkle despite the sadness that lurks in their depths; twinkle and shine and dare to see the world how it _could_ be.

"They play in the snow," Jack says quietly, an offering of sorts. "I make sure the snow is soft, and snow forts are magical castles and snowmen are exactly who children need them to be. Troops, or friends, or... family. Snow days are the _best_ days, _and all children play_."

"Indeed." St. North sits in thoughtful silence as flames from the Yule log crackle in golden sparks. He then pulls his sack over to where he is sitting. "Two children I know of in this house... but who are you, boy of snow?"

Stuffing Aster Bunny back down into his pocket, Jack jumps lightly from his staff then pulls it from the floor, holding it loosely at his side. "I'm Jack," he introduces himself as he tugs at the brim of his cap, hoping he's making a good impression. "Jack Frost."

"Ah! Jack Frost. Now _that_ is being a familiar name!" He reaches into his sack with authority; digs around inside with an enthusiasm that _must_ be damaging the other presents. "Right near top of list. Aha!" St. North's bellow is triumphant as he pulls a sled painted a bright, shiny red out of the sack. A name tag is wrapped around one of the rails and printed on it in large, block letters is the message: To Jack. "I had been wondering on how to deliver this! Here you go, boy of snow! Now you will be having merry Christmas!"

Jack has no choice but to accept the sled as it's thrust against his chest; no choice but to let his staff go unless he wants the pretty sled to fall crashing to the ground. He has no _choice_ but to cry a single, icy tear at this unexpected present when just that day he'd been led to believe he'd never receive a gift again. He cries: a drop of hail that melts away into merriment, and the wooden floor is no longer covered in hail but the swirling mist of laughter instead.

"You're several weeks late," Jack tells him as he strokes the enameled wood with reverent fingers. The sled is nearly half his size and far heavier than anything he's ever before lifted, but it's _his_ and he loves it. "Sinterklaas is supposed to come on the fifth, not the twenty-fifth of the month." He allows his grin to break free for he has an inkling now of who this man might be. _North,_ who stole away the children's attention from a frost child's story at the Lamadary. _North_, who had to leave Katherine behind. _North_, the maker of toys that had won his brother's admiration — and who _wasn't_ Sinterklaas, but it was _so_ much _fun_ to tease! "Do you go about stealing cookies?"

"How many times must I be saying I am _not_ this Santa... Did you say cookies?" Getting to his feet, St. North looks around the room with raw, naked _longing_ etched upon his features, and his blue eyes nearly glow as he spots the tin. "Aha! Cookies!" Without thought the man takes the lid off of the tin and helps himself to _pepernoten_, stuffing two into his mouth as he drops three into his pocket. "Delicious," he mumbles, and reaches for more. "So much better when not already chewed by elves."

Friend of Katherine's, _or not_. Friend of Nightlight's, _or not_; the _man_ is stealing Rachel's cookies. And Jack can hardly believe it, that there _is_, in fact, a man that sneaks into houses leaving behind presents for good children and coal for those that have misbehaved, and steals cookies from tins set safely away from prying little hands. What would the man do next? Have the gall to demand a glass of milk?

Jack is guardian of his house. He _protects_ his family — even if his family has gently, ever-so-gently, pushed him to the side. This is _his_ house, not even Pitch would dispute that; in a village they must _share_ this is Jack's _home_ and even _he_ asks Rachel when he wants one of her cookies. With utmost care he sets down his sled— and picks up his staff.

_The Santa Claus man must pay for his crime._

His staff strikes the floor with a sound of thunder and sweeping spirals of frost race across the wooden planks, encasing the man's boots in a thick coating of ice. "_No one_ steals from Rachel," he warns St. North, tapping his staff again for good measure — and the flames of the Yule log are _captured_ inside crystals of ice. "Not Teddy, not Sinterklaas — and _not_ the greatest thief in all the Russias! Shame on you!"

Nicholas St. North rips his feet free of the ice — and _laughs_. "Oh ho! Is that the way of it?" Nimbly he ducks a thrown snowball; slips on a patch of grasping ice but catches himself on the table before he falls completely. Jack's chair, though, isn't so lucky; one of the man's flailing legs kicks it and an echoing _snap_ is heard by all in the house. "Oops!" There is as much joy as naughtiness in the man's encompassing smirk as he doffs his fur-lined cap and bows gallantly towards Jack. "Now is time to be going. Busy busy with the delivering!" A blue eye, twinkling bright as a moonbeam, winks. "Until next year, boy of snow!"

Before Jack can reach him the man has stepped over the frozen flames of the fire and disappeared up the chimney.

"What in the world?" Thaddeus, his night shirt fluttering about his ankles, walks carefully into the room, his eyes skimming over the damage and fixing on Jack instead. "Child? What has happened here?"

He cannot answer. He's been forbidden the windows and the mirror has been taken away. He cannot explain, or protest his innocence, or even _warn_ the man that hatred's shadow is stalking the village. He _can_ point to the dollhouse, the coal, _his sled_. He points, and hopes Thaddeus notices the nametags.

He can stand by the front door and mime opening it, until Thaddeus _understands_ and unlatches it for him. Jack leaps into the air — then pauses, hovering over the porch, for Thaddeus has asked in a voice as drear as defeat, "Shall you return, child?"

"Of course." He nods, but he cannot _tell_ Thaddeus that he'll be back. All his options for _telling_ are gone. Instead he nods, nods and smiles and waves goodbye as the Wind lifts him high above the village. _Of course_ he'll return; even if they choose not to see him, he'll _return_. He's never been good at letting things go and he's in no way prepared to let his _family_ slip through his grasp. He won't let hate win.

But for now he has a cookie thief to catch. The man _owes_ him for breaking his chair. And — he hadn't had the chance to thank St. North for the sled. It's a _beautiful_ sled and it's vital that he tells the man how much he appreciates the gift. Gifts for a frost child are rare as snowflakes in summer. He needs to say thank you...

...And he wonders if Nicholas St. North has a heartbeat worth falling asleep to.

~o~

_**End notes:**__ And up on the roof escaped North with a clatter — Yay! I am thinking perhaps a short explanation is needed, though, for those that haven't read the books. You're prolly wondering why North has dark hair and a nifty trimmed beard (or maybe you aren't wondering, because you figure Esse will throw anything your way...). In the books, North is _young_. Apparently he aged somewhere between the books and movie. I'm going with the whole 'wizards age slowly' belief, and once North hits a certain age (hopefully not as ancient-looking as Ombric) he'll stop aging and settle down into immortality. (And there's always a chance wizards aren't immortal, just extremely long-lived. That means there's a _chance_ North isn't immortal like the rest of the Guardians...)_

_Pyrrhic victory: a victory or goal achieved at too great a cost. Someone who wins a Pyrrhic victory has been victorious in some way; however, the heavy toll negates any sense of achievement or profit. And there you have it: no one who sees Jack can handle seeing him cry. It's beyond the end of the world, much too sad, and must be fixed at all costs. Even Pitch doing his best to be supportive. :p Hey, I didn't say Pitch did it _well_._

_Beta by _Kaylessa_, who has done fanart, the link to which is here:  
mormongirlbyu dot deviantart dot com / art / Nose-Nudge-353351089_

_Because the picture is beyond adorable! (Esse has printed it out for the cover of her story binder. Yes, it is that cute!) _Kaylessa_ also pointed out that Jack's proposed message for the mirror is somewhat, erm... lengthy. (Okay, it's downright verbose and a bit pompous.) Esse's excuse is... Y'all know that speech Jack gives Jamie at the end of the movie? Wasn't it grand? Wasn't it fitting? ...Didn't it seem to _roll_ off Jack's tongue, as though he's practiced _constantly_ over the years? -nods- Yup. Jack has spent _centuries_ waxing eloquent within the confines of his mind. _If_ Jack actually had the mirror to write on? I'm betting his message would have been somewhat different, and started with [STUPID Thaddeus!] Just sayin' ^_~_

_Many, many thanks and conversational hearts to _nique17, Breezyfeather, Twilight Cardmistress, Magiccatprincess, Clio Ying, Alaia Skyhawk, RandomKrazyPerson, Bookworm Gal, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, blackkyu, oceanlover4evr, jboat, Cindar, Rahar Moonfire, DragonflyonBreak, hi, dizappearingirl, Alana-kittychan, Soshoryu, Hannah, Dragowolf, bookworm, Anne Camp, Crystal Peak, hisokauzumaki, !A4E!_ and _Sora Tayuya_ for their reviews. I love reviews. And my family absolutely cracks up with my obsessive checking for them on my phone while out doing the shopping. Or watching telly. Or cooking dinner. And, as you've probably noticed, Esse _reads_ reviews, thinks about the points you've made — and they do have an effect on the story. Thank you so very much!_

nique17:_ I'm glad you're expanding your vocabulary! I just hope you don't have to spend too much time looking up words ^^;; I'm always happy to provide definitions, especially if there's any doubt as to _which_ definition of a particular word is meant to apply. It happens sometimes o.o_

Magiccatprincess:_ Thank you for deciding to take a chance on reading _Silence_. I know that the heavy dependence on the books can be off-putting. (That, and the beginning style can be terribly jarring.)_

Clio Ying:_ Huggles! Because, you know, you're there. annnd GLOMP!_

RandomKrazyPerson:_ There's Pitch! And Ombric shows up next part, and it's actually _in_ story as opposed to in Grumpy!Jack._

oceanlover4evr:_ -nods- _Kaylessa_ led me to the comics. Gosh — some of those a _dark_. I am so glad that they can be considered AU, because _that_ Pitch? He doesn't play nice with _my_ Pitch. At all. My Pitch, and book Pitch, read over my shoulder (I'm sure, yeppers!), shuddered, then went out together for chili cheese fries._

jboat:_ A letter from Aster! LOL! Which, I know this isn't what you meant, but what came to mind is MAIL CALL at North's Workshop._

North: Aha! Mailman finally made way through storm. Big backup of mail! Sandy! Here is subscription to _Sandcastle's Monthly_, _Star Pilot's Quarterly_ and, uh... catalogue of whips for every occasion...

Sandy: ... _::grabs up magazines, smiles, and begins reading::_

North: Right... Okay then. Tooth! More news on class-action lawsuit brought against you by Baby Teeth for failure to provide adequate Worker's Compensation benefits. Ha! Told you to go with same company I use for Yetis. —Never mind elves; little pointy heads _like_ getting mangled. Too much stolen eggnog.

Tooth: It's not fair! Do you realize how far in the red my business operates? All I do is give out money! Is it too late to reorganize as a charity? _::grabs mail and tosses into fire; glares at frantically chirping Baby Tooth::_ I'll _let_ Pitch keep you next time! I'll break your union yet!

North: D: O-o-okay... Next, Jack! _::hands over towering stack of chocolate-scented letters::_ Looks like the Asters wrote you again.

Bunny: What? What's that?! I haven't written to him!

Jack: :þ North said _Asters_, not overgrown Kangaroos. _::flies up to rafters to read::_

Bunny: What does he mean, Asters? North, what's he talking about?

North: ^^;; Meaning is... is... I must be checking on Globe. Very important. Yes. Here, Bunny: You get bills! Cleaning bills for Easter! Remember, Merry Maid Marian does not accept payment in hard-boiled eggs.

Bunny: _::looks at bill::_ NORTH!

hi:_ :D I'd love to answer, but the answers would be all spoilery and I can't send a PM. So I will say, many adults in Burgess will come to believe in Jack, but since it's only Jack and not _Jack Frost_ it's not enough. And since they're not wizards, their belief isn't enough to allow them to see Jack, though they will often talk as if he were present, just in case he _is_._

Soshoryu:_ I do hope you got those extra miles! I got them leaving the mountains, but since I used _more_ gas getting up them... Pah. It was a wash._

Dragowolf:_ Yes. Yes she is :D_

bookworm:_ Yeah, Thaddeus really needs to step up. And he will (I hope ^^;;)_

Anne Camp:_ Erm, the shaking fist is scary... -slips Sandy hand puppet over shaking fist- There we go, much better!_

_Finally, because _Kaylessa_ says I can't write the freeze ray war until the play is finished..._

_"I don't know, but I've been told: Waiting for the play is getting old!"_

_Well, it's not the play, but it's a prelude to the play — so that counts for something. Right? Right._

~o~

Pitch is the King of Nightmares. He likes his title, but it's not the only one he's earned over his long, varied career. He has also been called the Prince of Putridness, the Earl of Unexpected and Unwelcome Guests, the Grand Poobah of the Royal Order of Water Buffaloes, and Twinkle Toes Charley. He isn't exactly _sure_ where he picked up the Twinkle Toes Charley appellation but he blames the month-long bender that took place back in 1967 from which he awoke confused and wrapped in a tattered aqua towel in the center of the Castro District with a cottony mouth, covered in temporary tattoos of peace symbols and doves and wearing a pair of red, sequined shoes he is _sure_ last saw use during the filming of The Wizard of Oz.

Of all his many titles and job descriptions and nicknames — and he'll deny to his last, undying breath that _he's_ Rad Devin the Surfer-Dude that was last seen wiping out against the pylons of the Santa Monica pier — it's his most enjoyed yet least known honorific that he's currently making use of. This particular afternoon he is not Pitch the Nightmare King. Nor is he Kozmotis Pitchiner the lauded General of the Golden Age — whom history tells us was a bit of a downer and absolutely _no_ fun at parties. No, he is not the Boogieman or the Monster Under the Bed or The Thing That Goes Bump in the Night. This afternoon Pitch is Sultan of Snack foods, prepackaged for convenience and positively lethal if consumed in large enough quantities.

Which should be enough to explain _why_ he's in the supermarket staring numbly at the neatly stacked rows of dairy treats, but today there is a _darker_ explanation than Pitch's unprecedented tolerance and craving for junkfood.

"Frost," Pitch grumbles, tearing his gaze away from plastic bottles of flavored milk in favor of glowering at his companion. "Why are we here?"

With a put-upon sigh Jack nudges a snack pack of gelatin with the tip of his staff, then watches in bemused horror as the jiggly green substance bounces and burps before returning to stillness. "I _told_ you: We're rehearsing with _elementary_ school students. After school. _Before_ they go home. If we don't provide snacks..." Jack's shiver has nothing to do with the open refrigerated units displaying non-dairy flavored coffee creamers. Or maybe it does. "It was a proviso on the permission slips their parents signed. If we don't feed the rampaging terrors, the parents won't be held liable for their children's actions." He cocks a snowy brow, and watches blue gelatin get its groove thing on. "Cannibalism was specifically listed, Pitch. _Cannibalism_."

"Really?" He may be the King of Nightmares — and he might have, at one point in time, been Cowboy Jake the Fastest Caricaturist in the West — but Pitch has never seen the appeal of that particular peculiarity. It made for interesting nightmares, but since he _too_ had to sleep eventually he made it a point to never enter _those_ kinds a dreams. "I suppose that explains our presence here at the store, then. Although why I had to come with you—"

"You snuck off the last four times and missed rehearsal."

Pitch smiles thinly and with no small amount of pride. "Well, yes. There's that. But as I was saying, I can see why we're in the store. What I cannot figure out is why we've been staring at five dozen different flavors of yogurt for the past half hour."

Jack shrugs, and tries to convince himself that the orange gelatin isn't trying to woo the canister of light whipping cream. "Umm, maybe because there's five dozen different flavors? I mean, how am _I_ supposed to know which kind Jamie likes? They just told me to pick up yogurt! And there's regular, light, whipped, Greek, fruit on the bottom, granola on top... That one has toffee bits to mix in!" There's panic in his glassy blue eyes as well as a hint of disgust. "Who puts toffee in their yogurt?!"

Inspector of the Betty Crocker Test Kitchen and fourth season winner of Master Chef, Pitch agrees with Jack _in principle_ — but he can't actually bring himself to _agree_ with Frost at the moment. "Sounds scrumptious," he purrs, placing a hand on Jack's shoulder. "But not my point. This is _yogurt_. Milk that's been colonized by bacteria, _digested_, then spewed back out in a thick, acidic glop that then sits on a store shelf for weeks, sometimes _months_, and all the while the infesting microorganisms thrive, eagerly awaiting the day they wind up in some unsuspecting person's _gut_."

"Eww!" The normally cool, collected, _pale_ Jack Frost is currently sweating and decidedly green in hue. "That's... that's horrible! Ick! Yuck! I — I need to go scrub my hands. And my brain. Right now..." Hands over his mouth and staff left behind to clatter on the tiled floor, Jack flies to the bathrooms at the back of the store.

"Was it something I said?" Pitch asks innocently, then fills the cart full of pudding. Then, unable to hold a straight face, he bursts into cackling laughter. "Oh my! This play thing is going to be so much fun! Okay, I can cross dairy off the list. Next up: Pretzels. Hmm. What is with all the _health_ food? Oh well, I'm sure I'll be able to talk Jack into substituting Doritos..."


	45. wizard

In The Silence

~45~

"Wind, do you see him?"

The forest underneath Jack is a shadow outlined in glimmering snow and the river is a ribbon of reflected moonlight, but nowhere does he see a betraying flash of red. Not below on the ground, not above in the star-strewn sky, and the Moon's close regard feels like expectation as it falls across his coated shoulders. Moonbeams dance around him drawn in by the search and their gentle queries fill the night in a steady, thrumming song of, _'Where where where?'_

The Wind isn't sure and that startles Jack, for the Wind is _everywhere_ and ever-watchful. But the Wind is embarrassed as it admits amidst much bluster that while it is indeed everywhere — except a few places, a very few, protected places hidden within wards of such strength that the Wind dares not enter — it doesn't always pay _attention_. So many of the workings of the world are _boring_ beyond belief; besides, its frost child had been indoors at the time and could Jack _blame_ the Wind for being distracted by the tears of its child?

"Wind..." Jack flings his arms around his friend; hugs tightly and is hugged in return; a hug of dew damp air that leaves a furring of frost along his new clothes and a swirl of snowflakes in the Wind's wake. "What about now? Does he ride upon you? Or does he trek upon the ground? How far of a head start does he have?"

The thief's lead must be vast for all the Wind can tell him is _north_, and Jack is not sure if the Wind is offering direction or merely repeating the outrageous man's name to itself. They rise higher, him and the flock of errant moonbeams, rise towards the ceiling of the sky as the Wind eddies below to check between the swaying branches of pines and inside the small crevice-caves of the eastern mountains. Jack rises until the world is less than a patchwork quilt but isn't yet a dinner plate, and the Moon watches with amusement. Offers encouragement in a wide, brilliant smile that lights up the night — but stays silent. Silent as always. Silent conspirator in St. North's escape.

"Big help you are," Jack tells the Moon, folding his arms across his chest and pouting. "From your vantage point you must see _everything_. Couldn't you... I don't know... Point, or something?" Moonbeams _laugh_ around him and Snowflake _laughs_ as a clear, shivering chime that impossibly fills air too thin to properly carry sound. And Jack can not hear laughter and not join in, not when it's the innocent, delighted laughter of moonbeams, and his chuckling chases away the lingering remnants of petulance leaving behind in its place an urge to _move_...

_If only he knew where._

_'Jack boy,'_ Snowflake says, a warmth against his heart and a comfort against the small, long-held sorrow over the Moon's eternal silence. _'If Nicholas is _North_ as you think, _Katherine's_ North... If he is, and is not some other North...'_

"He mentioned Santoff Claussen." Lips still quirked with the remnants of laughter, Jack thoughtfully leans back, gripping his staff with both fingers and toes; leans back and gazes into the infinity of stars overhead...

_Though there had once been more. Ever so many more stars, before._

...as the idea takes shape and moonbeams play a never-ending game of chase about him. "He knows Big Root. If he's _North_, then Katherine knows him."

_'If he is North, then Katherine should know where he went.'_

"Wind!" Jack shouts to gain the attention of his meandering friend. "We're going to Santoff Claussen to see if the storyteller knows where St. North dwells. Are you coming?"

_Coming?_ Of _course_ the Wind is coming; doesn't know why its child even needs to _ask_ such a silly question. The Wind is coming, and going, and always _always_ always _there_ even when there's nary a breeze. The Wind _is_, and it will never leave Jack... It cannot, however, do much should Jack decide to leave _it_. The Wind has never _liked_ Jack's lake, the bottom of which is a mystery. The Wind doesn't much care for Santoff Claussen, that village of wards and spells and frightful forest spirits — but it will travel with Jack. _Of course_ it will. What else in the world could possibly hold its interest?

They travel, Jack and the moonbeams upon the Wind's strong back, across the mountains and over the dark expanse of ocean that gradually brightens as they race towards the rising sun. The sun is golden light above and the water is a dazzling gold reflection below until sea once more meets with land lightly carpeted beneath a layer of snow. Together they travel past cities and hamlets and ancient, wary forests; past hills and mountains and sprawling plains. They travel until the Wind slows; retreats, but not before pressing a soft caress against Jack's face and offering a promise to keep watch.

The Wind will stay with the moonbeams high overhead; it doesn't feel like braving the welcome that exists for its child in the village. Jack might be invited behind the wards, but the Wind feels no allowance has been made for itself.

"I'll ask," Jack says as he lets himself drop in glorious freefall. "Where I go, you should always be able to follow." And, as badly as he feels for the Wind left behind to sulk, Jack can't help a jubilant whoop as he spirals down faster than a stooping hawk to the great, spreading tree that's raising up sturdy limbs towards the sky as if they are arms reaching out to greet him.

Big Root is overjoyed at his return; trembles and quakes as leafy branches run gently over his skin and through his hair, as twigs like fingers twine about his coat sleeves and the already tattered edges of his new pants. Jack spares an indignant glare at the torn material; he'll need to find something to bind the linsey-woolsey of his trousers or the Wind will have them completely unraveled in no time. That, though, is a chore for later. Now, he has a friend to reunite with.

He's overjoyed to return to Big Root; pushes his face against green, growing leaves and breathes deep as he lets his fingers run along bark both rough and smooth; wraps his free hand around a limber branch and swings freely as clumps of snow dislodge from the tangled leaves above and shower down around him. He jumps from limb to limb, wood warm and pulsing and pleasant beneath the bare soles of his feet. He jumps and Big Root moves to catch him in a net of leaves and twig-fingers, and sometimes he dodges with a shrill of laughter and sometimes he lets the net catch him and bounce him to the very top of the tree where sunshine blazes against a sky of azure and pearl.

Jack frolics in Big Root's canopy, but he's come to Santoff Claussen for a reason and during pauses in the game he's playing with the tree he peeks in hollows that serve as windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Katherine. He supposes he could always go to Big Root's front door and _knock_, but peering through windows is familiar and falls within a frost child's jurisdiction. Through one such hollow he spots a parliament of owls perched sleepily around a large, hollow globe. Disturbed from their rest the ruffled birds stare at him with wide, gold eyes and grumble in the language of owls — which is subtle, but not subtle _enough_ to disguise the fact they're insulting Jack's upbringing. Or his manners.

_'Or both,'_ Snowflake tells him helpfully, listening with interest to the owls' complaints. _'It's hard to tell. The language of owls is enigmatic. Or perhaps it's their habit of mumbling. Owls are terrible mumblers. Even if they _are_ wise and can spell Tuesday... nearly.'_

Planting his elbows along the bottom edge of the hollow, Jack rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue at the owls. "I'm perfectly within my rights," he tells them. "This is clearly a window — even if it's lacking glass or shutters — and I _am_ a frost child."

"Why, so you are!" With a suddenness that has Jack yelping and falling backwards, an elderly man pokes his head through the window and watches with twinkling, keen eyes as Big Root gracefully catches Jack before he can hit the ground. "Imagine; a frost child in this day and age! How wonderful and unexpected. Come in child, come in; don't mind the owls. They've been out of sorts all morning, what with the children playing with their new toys and ignoring all thought of lessons. Owls _do_ despise hullabaloos." The old man grasps Jack around his wrist and _yanks_ as Big Root lifts, and before he can protest the rough handling Jack is through the window and sprawled in an untidy heap atop the old man on the floor of the room. His staff is caught in ornate folds of robe and the fringe of his scarf is tangled in curling white strands of the other's beard, and the thin chest beneath his ear is panting in mild astonishment. "Goodness!" the old man chortles as he absently pats Jack's capped head. "I wasn't expecting _that_. All the weight of dandelion fluff!"

Jack huffs — although he can't keep a slight smile from escaping — and does his best to untangle himself. "A snowflake," he corrects as he slips free of clinging beard and silky robe and struggles to stand with the help of his staff, losing his cap in the process.

"Nonsense. A snowflake is no weight at all. You, my boy, are at least as heavy as a butterfly. Perhaps heavier! Although nowhere _near_ twenty-one grams; wretched bit of nonsense _that's_ going to be. Of no matter!" Waving his hand negligently the old man sits up and _beams_. "I'm Ombric Shalazar: Wizard, scholar, and _inventor_ of chocolate — never mind what Bunnymund claims; if you were to listen to _him_ he'd take credit for gravity! Hmph. **I** invented bouncy balls; _gravity_ is a given. —And you are?" he asks as he waggles his raised hand, his fingers twitching as if searching for something to grasp.

Jack's grown wiser in the ways of the world; he's seen people in towns greet others with a meeting of hands, palms against palms, and so he offers his own hand. The old man takes it with a speed that's surprising; _shakes_ his hand with a firmness and authority that belies the mischievous sparkle in his eyes and _hauls_ himself to his feet, nearly tugging Jack down in the process.

"I — I'm Jack," he says as Ombric continues to shake his hand with an enthusiasm that only grows at his introduction. "Do you know Aster?" Unable to reclaim his right hand, Jack leans his staff across his shoulder and uses his left to retrieve his stuffed toy from its pocket. "He said — he said we'd meet again, and I wanted to show him Aster Bunny so he knows... I haven't forgotten. Because... Maybe he thinks my lake's taken those memories away, but I haven't forgotten. Not once. And, and it's been so _long_ and I _know_ he said it would be a while but _if_ you know Aster, could you tell him?"

"Oh..." Ombric is no longer shaking his hand; instead, he's holding it gently as his other hand lifts to stroke the soft fabric of Aster Bunny's ears. "...Aster said you'd meet again? That's far more assurance than I was given. Then again, knowing Bunnymund, he likely _knew_ you'd tell me and figured that was notice enough. Do I _know_ him, though? According to the Lunar Lamas he is difficult to know, and _enjoys_ being unknowable; the Grand High Lama would argue that no one knows him well enough to say what he's had for breakfast — but I could make a fair guess as to what he's having for tea on any given afternoon, so I suppose I might know him better than most."

"...I don't understand." Jack doesn't like to admit it, not to someone who can hear him; _touch_ him; _pity_ him. Snowflake's never minded his gaps in understanding, and together with the Wind they make a game of learning as they move about the world. Ombric, however, he _doesn't_ know, not to be able to say what the elderly man's eaten for breakfast nor what he might have for tea later on. Ombric is a _wizard_ which is, perhaps, not _quite_ a man, and Ombric _feels_ like Thaddeus to Jack's _self_ which would usually be reassuring — but not now. Not _now_ when he's... he's _angry_ with Thaddeus...

_He's _angry_ at Thaddeus _he realizes, gasping as he finally recognizes the emotion for what it truly is._ He's _furious_ at Thaddeus because the man is a _father_, his... _**His**_**.**__ A father shouldn't be unfair. And Thaddeus has been unfair. A father stands up for his family. _All his family._ And Thaddeus hasn't._

_If Thaddeus' home is _his_, and it _is_ for its welcome is woven deep within his _self_; if Thaddeus' home is _Jack's_ home, then Thaddeus is his _family_. Thaddeus and Rachel, Sarah... and even Teddy, they're Jack's _family_ — but _family_ doesn't just _ignore_ one of its own. Or cast it aside simply because it's become inconvenient._

Of all the things in the world Jack doesn't understand — _this_, he does. He's watched families through windows for nearly a hundred years; watched warm welcomes and warmer embraces and beatific smiles when others come _home_. He _had_ that. He _was_ part of the Burgess family...

_And Thaddeus hasn't been fair, at all._

When Jack returns — of course he'll return; he'd practically _promised_ — when he returns _home_ after confronting St. North... He's going to have _words_ with Thaddeus. Even if the mirror's been set aside for safe keeping. Even if he's been banned from the windows. Even if Thaddeus can't _hear_ a single thing he says, Jack's going to _discuss_ this with Thaddeus. Calmly. Rationally. And then he's going to freeze the man's underclothes **solid**.

Mind made up, Jack blinks — then ducks his head in embarrassment for he has no idea how long he's been standing, staring vacantly at the elderly man in front of him. Ombric, though, is smiling a kind, sympathetic smile; smiling and still holding his hand between the wrinkled, weathered palms of his own. Ombric might _feel_ like Thaddeus but Ombric also _feels_ a bit like Sandman; feels like _age_ and _wisdom_ but most of all _fun_. Ombric feels like _grandfather_ as the man pulls him close in a snug embrace that soothes away the rough edges of Jack's anger.

"It's okay," Ombric murmurs as he carefully places Jack's green and brown cap back on his head. "I can hardly claim to understand Bunnymund either, even though he's a good friend. To both of us, I'm thinking. Oh, Jack. How I wish I had an answer for you. A true answer instead of wishy-washy this-or-that. Bunnymund's a Pooka and he travels as he will across the universe — and across time. Did you know that?"

"I think so." He thinks he recalls something of the sort. So much of his conversation with Aster had made so very little sense, and after all these years the two things he remembers clearest is the rabbit's disappointment that Jack hadn't warned him of the — awkwardness — of their first encounter, and the great, booming _lub-dub_ of Aster's heartbeat guiding him into slumber. "Aster told me I shouldn't think too poorly of him when next we meet, for he'll be younger and not... not..."

"Not particularly _like_ Bunnymund at all. No." With a final pat to his shoulder Ombric releases Jack but doesn't turn away, nor tries to hide the growing concern shadowing his twinkling eyes. "Bunnymund had to leave this _time_, though whether he went forward or back I do not know. I've looked for him, even at times and places we've met before, but while there are Bunnymund's aplenty to be found, none of them are precisely _my_ Bunnymund, and they're less likely to be _your_ Aster."

Ombric sighs, a heavy, burdened sound out of place inside the protective shelter of Big Root. "Bunnymund laid a fearsome charge upon us before he left. A most terrible duty. For _this_ time we are currently moving through belongs to his younger self as well. Who, quite frankly, is a troublesome, irascible Pooka which styles himself as Bunny, and _Bunnymund_ — rather at wit's end, actually — had us _swear_ to take the ill-tempered Bunny in hand. Shelter him under our wing, so to speak..."

An owl, a large dappled fellow of scruffy feathers who looks more startled than peeved as he rests on the highest perch above the hollow globe, hoots mournfully in testament to the impossible-ness of the task.

"I know. How I know!" the wizard responds to the owl's biting comment, shrugging his shoulders in a small, hopeless jerk. "Jack my boy, if I happen across your Aster I'll pass along your message. Certainly I will. But from the sound of it — and Bunnymund _would_ know, wouldn't he? — you're going to run into _Bunny_ first. And if your Aster felt the need to _warn_ you... Oh, do take care. Take _extraordinary_ care. At this precise moment in time Bunny has all the _charm_ and personality of a viper caught while shedding its skin. Less, actually; you might be able to _reason_ with the viper, but while I speak all the languages of the creatures of the earth I've yet to understand more than a fourth of Bunny's rants. Fair dinkum!"

"...What?"

"Exactly my point!"

Jack doesn't want to think poorly of Aster, not his friend of soft, tickling fur and eyes greener than spring. He _can't_ think poorly of Aster, not with Aster Bunny cuddled to his chest pliant and smelling vaguely of _pepernoten_ from the crumbs left behind in his coat pocket. But he's now had three warnings...

_And Aster would know, wouldn't he?_

...about the rabbit's younger self, and dare he disregard them? He's _worried_, now — and not quite as eager to meet Aster again. Not if it won't be _Aster_ but some strange, incomprehensible _Bunny_ instead. Pressing his lips to the plush rabbit's head the scent of cinnamon tickles his nose, and with more care than usual Jack slips the toy back into his pocket where it rests somewhat forlornly amidst _pepernoten_ crumbs.

"I'll — be careful," Jack says, and how he's come to _dislike_ that word in the course of a single day. Careful got his mirror taken away. _Careful_ has separated him from his family. Careful might keep him from properly welcoming Aster when next they meet — but he hopes not. _Careful_ shouldn't have the power to ruin friendship. He shan't _let_ it have that kind of power over his life.

"Excellent. Well, not the situation. Future situation; Bunny's hardly _excellent_, although glimmers of the Pooka he'll someday be do escape his scowling visage from time to time." Twirling a long strand of beard between two fingers, Ombric pauses as he struggles to recall his point. "I meant: Excellent to finally meet you, Jack! Big Root's told me so much about you! And I must say," he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "your arrival has cheered the old lad considerably! _I_ understand Nicholas' need to gain a foothold on Christmas, rather dreary holiday that it's been, but Big Root? Simply cannot comprehend why all the children are _off_ playing with their new toys. Excellent timing, Jack. Most excellent!"

"...You're welcome?" Ombric is once again shaking his hand; shaking his hand and patting his back and steering him towards a door leading out into a carpeted hallway beyond. "Only, Nicholas St. North is the reason I've come to Santoff Claussen. If he's Katherine's North—"

"Oh, he most definitely is. Or she's North's Katherine." Ombric's smile is wide and gleaming, and Big Root pulses beneath Jack's feet as if sharing a joke. "One or the other, but usually _both_. Do tell me what my student's done to bring you here in search of him. Has he taken up banditry once more?"

Jack frowns, not sure if the wizard's levity is proper for the situation. "He stole Rachel's cookies. And left me a sled."

"Did he now?" Ombric is _laughing_ at him, Jack _knows_ he is, even if his mouth is a solemn, concerned line. Jack can _see_ it in the twinkling depths of the wizard's eyes; _hear_ it in the quiet hooting of the owls behind them... but it's a laughter that's inviting him in rather than locking him out — and Ombric's wrinkled hand is still clasped securely around his own.

"Best we find Katherine, then," Ombric says, nodding sagely and paying no heed to the owl landing roughly atop his long, pointed hat or to the frost child leaning in to the comfort of his silk-robed side. "She has a compass, you see. A wonderful, magical compass — that _always_ points towards North."

~o~

_**End notes:**__ And there's Ombric lol!_

_Okay, _Kaylessa_ needs a metric ton of praise for her beta of this chapter. Really. See, as some of you already know Esse took a tumble down her back porch stairs a few weeks ago. And while her doctor is very chipper and optimistic Esse has been in pain, and has been mopity, and has been downright whiny. ~And now that the doctor has switched pain meds, Esse is also terribly loopy. _Kaylessa_ bravely took on this part, this part written by a loopy, cranky, mentally-deficient Esse, and fixed it up to readability._

_Sweetling, I owe you a drabble and about a billion hugs. Let me know what you'd like._

_What this ultimately means for the readers of _Silence_? Well, the story is going to be finished, but there are going to be large delays like the one that took place this week. Sitting is agony, and I'm writing in 15 minute spurts as I can bear it. Hopefully I'll start feeling better in a few more weeks, and I'll get more work done. Patience is appreciated, but I'm just as put-out by the delays as you prolly are._

a parliament of owls:_ apparently, a group of owls is a parliament. Go fig._

spelling Tuesday:_ is a reference to _Winnie the Pooh_, in a quote regarding Owl: "_You can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count._" Sure, Milne hasn't written _Winnie the Pooh_ yet — but surely the ability to almost spell Tuesday is universal amongst owls :D_

twenty-one grams:_ the purported mass of a human soul based on an experiment performed by Dr. Duncan MacDougall in 1901. His results have never been replicated, nor has there been much interest in _trying_ to replicate his experiment ^^;; because, yeah — way morbid._

fair dinkum:_ true, genuine. Ombric isn't entirely sure of its meaning, and he uses it more as an example of Bunny's unfamiliar slang._

Ombric's opinion on Christmas:_ because we really don't think of this holiday as being drear. But at this point in time, with North only just starting to deliver presents? It's a holiday of solemn prayer and thoughtfulness, and Ombric much prefers having _fun_ to stodgy introspection._

_Many huggle-filled thanks to _Hunter-Re, Bookworm Gal, MisteryMaiden, ThatOneFan, Kaylessa, dizappearingirl, Alana-kittychan, Fumus000, Anne Camp, Eternal She-Wolf, bookworm, Tanigi, Tenshi-Chan, Breezyfeather, Alaia Skyhawk, Crystal Peak, Yue Hikari, jboat, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, UVNight, Anon, Dragowolf, hi, Magiccatprincess, TriplePivotTurn, DragonsFlame117_ and _Palleas _for their reviews. I know there was a bit of a glitch with part 44; FFnet just wasn't behaving that weekend. I'm not going to be to answer any questions right now, but I hope to next part when my thinking's a bit clearer ^_^_

_I do have to give sincere apologies to _wynturkroh_. I am so very, very sorry. I do not know how I missed your first PM. I'll try to PM you this evening as you deserve a proper response. Please believe I haven't been ignoring you on purpose, and again, I am _so_ very sorry._

Fumus000:_ Well, I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind for your drabble, but it's what popped into my head ^^;; And... this is part one of two. Because it was just getting too long for a drabble — but it demands to be finished. Huggles! _

~o~

"This the place, then?"

It's a small, two-story house, and to the discerning eye it had once been well-loved. Time and neglect, though, has left it the worse for wear after the passing of nearly two centuries; paint has peeled until only small flecks of color remain in sheltered crevices and unprotected wood has splintered and snapped. It _should_ be condemned, is Bunny's opinion; condemned, torn down, and something useful put in its place. Like a park. A city can never have enough parks.

However, the structure is _not_ condemned, although by the dust coating the closed placard displayed in the front window it's been a while since visitors last graced the building. A worn sign hanging from the porch's fascia declares the ramshackle house to be the Burgess Museum and there's something melancholic in the way the sign creaks, pushed gently by a sudden breeze. With a shiver Bunny reaches up to still the sign and stop the mournful sound. Even if the place _should_ be condemned, it _was_ once well-loved and he _hates_ seeing history ignored and forgotten.

Mostly, he can't understand humans who are so eager to distance themselves from their roots. The past is all he _has_ of his people and he cherishes every remnant, every _scrap_ he's managed to salvage. Sighing quietly he lets disdain go and admits, if only to himself, that the house must've been a beaut back in her day and even now there's an odd, fey dignity lingering like cobwebs drifting across cracked windows.

"Yeah." Jamie's shoulders are hunched, and while Bunny would like to blame his posture on winter's cold the young boy is dressed warmly. No, it's their proposed activity for the night that has Jamie nervous; breaking and entering into the museum dedicated to his town's founder is a bit more than a childish _prank_, and the repercussions of getting caught are frightening to a child whose greatest previous misdeed has been sneaking out of his room late at night to build snowmen with his dearest friend.

"She's been so lonely," is Tooth's judgment as she rests the palm of her hand against the weathered front door, and while she might be Guardian of children's memories, this house so long abandoned by its family guards memories in its own right and Tooth feels nothing but respect for _any_ being, be it person or Guardian or old, faded house that has so faithfully tended to its duty through the years. "Children once laughed in her halls, babies were born in her rooms... and..." Lilac eyes blink as the house shares a precious memory with an honored guest. "—And a frost child would sneak in through her upstairs windows to play. I've no doubt this is the right place, Bunny."

"Ain't the place I'm doubting, Tooth." Scratching at an itch high up on his shoulder, Bunny's expression is less than pleased. "Just don't know _why_ we're here. All I was wondering was how a bloke couldn't recognize his own tombstone; looking at the dusty thingos of some long gone tall poppy won't tell us a thing."

"You don't know _anything_ about Jack." For such a small, unassuming child Jamie has a scowl to be reckoned with.

"Know enough," Bunny snaps back, but his ears swivel in distress until he confirms the silence surrounding them. The _last_ thing he wants to deal with tonight is a repeat visit from his future selves berating him for his attitude towards Frost. Sure, he might not have given the larrikin a fair go in the past but he's _trying_ to make amends. Even for things he _knows_ he'll never forgive _himself_ for.

Which is why he's standing on the rotten front porch of an old house turned museum. Because _Jack_ forgave him, time and again — and Bunny _needs_ to know why. He _needs_ to know _Jack_... and Jamie's right. He doesn't, _but he'd like to_.

"If you _knew_ Jack, you'd know better than to insult Thaddeus Burgess," Jamie insists, hefting up the heavy weight of a backpack to his shoulders. "Not — not call him a _poppy_." Puzzlement twists his frown into something less threatening, but the hands clenching around the backpack's straps are fisted tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. "What kind of insult is that, anyway?"

"Not an insult..." Ears twitch to the nearly silent footfalls of a cat jumping to the lid of a trash bin, and Bunny rolls his shoulders as he tries to ease the tension pulling at his spine. He's not upset with Jamie; the boy's _right_ on so many counts; Bunny's _never_ taken the time to truly know the winter spirit. That the whacker brought _snow_ had been enough to condemn him — _that_ had been Bunny's opinion...

_But what winter spirit weaves wreaths of roses in summer? What creature of snow splashes through rain puddles and fiercely guards a newborn fawn as it takes its first, trembling steps upon reed-thin legs? What bringer of ice, and cold, and death _cries_ when the first tulips of spring fail to lift their heads above the soil but _doesn't_ cry when he's bleeding out his life in rivulets of crystal water at the bottom of North's sleigh?_

"Sounded like one." Pushing back dark brown bangs, Jamie takes a deep breath then releases it as his mother's taught him to do when emotions run too high. "Not that it matters. You'll see. We came here on a field trip in first grade, and it's actually pretty cool inside. But it's the last room you should see. _I_ want to see it again. I mean, it didn't _mean_ anything, before; just a bunch of pictures, but now... I _really_ think you'll want to see them."

"Yeah, yeah. So you've said, and so we're here." Bunny's foot taps against weathered wooden planks impatiently, and a clawed finger taps at the door's tarnished brass key plate. "But unless you've got some way past the lock—"

"Bunny." Shaking her head, Tooth takes his arm and pats his hand. "Now you're just making up excuses. Baby Tooth is already inside, and she should have the lock open in—" A soft click from the other side of the door interrupts her, and with a small smile tinged with the faintest traces of guilt Tooth twists the brass knob and opens the door. "Good work, Baby," she praises her smallest self, receiving both a quick hug and a chattered response in return.

The house is dark as they enter but the Moon, as if approving either their initiative or their intentions, shines brightly from behind enshrouding clouds and moonlight falls through cracked windows in dreamy pale curtains, illuminating the rooms within. There are glass-doored cabinets and curios filled to capacity with all manner of knick-knacks and heirlooms. Display cases line the walls and once-fine furniture is hidden beneath sheets thick with starch and dust. Gilt-framed pictures hang from the walls; generations of Burgesses caught in oil paint, in charcoal, in pastel and Conté crayon; Burgesses dressed in their finest clothes and Burgesses dressed in outrageous outfits more fitting to the tropics, or the desert, or the far, far North.

Bunny thinks the outfits to be mere artistic license until he _sees_ them hanging behind protective glass in another room of the house. Asian silks and beautifully embroidered Indian cotton, shawls of intricately tatted Angora and a Christening blanket as cool and soft to the touch as snow made of no material Bunny's ever encountered. There are skirts made from impossibly green ti leaves and caps of felted reindeer hair, and in a case tucked away in the corner of the room there's a simple woolen cloak brown as earth, ragged and torn and childishly repaired with golden strands of dried grass and _flowers_ caught forever mid-bloom.

Tooth is not flying about in distraction. She is not fluttering, or hovering, or darting about. She's _standing_ in the center of the room with her fingers pressed delicately to her mouth, useless attempt to hold in a shocked gasp. "They're _feathers_," she says, nearly voiceless, as she picks up earrings of shimmering greens and blues. "They're feathers from my fairies. How? How can they be here? Our feathers can't be taken, only _given_..."

Baby Tooth chirps and grins saucily as she holds up a pendant with a feather as golden as the one that crowns Tooth's head; as golden as Baby Tooth's _own_.

Distracted from his own find — painted eggs, googies from his own fields but ones _he's_ never painted, not in pale blues and the silver swirl of snowflakes — Bunny looks towards the fairies as his confusion grows. "What's the little sheila saying, Tooth?"

"I — I don't know! It doesn't make any sense." Quick flicks of her wings betray Tooth's agitation as she asks her smallest self for clarification. And as Baby Tooth explains, Tooth's lilac eyes widen as glittering tears dampen feathery lashes before falling to splash upon the dusty floor. "They _played_ with Jack, Bunny. All these years... they've played with Jack, and I never knew. During _Onam_ they'd dance, and my fairies gave him feathers and he... He named them Little Sisters. _All of them._ And he's their cherished Elder Brother; every year he accepts their _rakhi_ and I never _knew_, Bunny! All these years my fairies told me tales of Jack Frost with his sparkling teeth and I never understood. It wasn't his _teeth_; it was his _smile_, Bunny.

"He's _family_... and I never knew. I didn't even _try_."

"C'mon, Tooth," Bunny says, throwing his arm over her shoulders in a bracing hug. "We're trying _now_, aren't we? Surely that counts for something."

It doesn't stop Tooth's tears or Baby Tooth's burbling chirps, and it most certainly doesn't lighten the frown darkening Jamie's face.

"We need to go upstairs," the boy tells them, setting down a snow globe that looks suspiciously like Yeti-work. "You really need to see the last room."

~o~

_And yet more definitions for Bunny's use of slang o.o;;; If I've made any mistakes, _please_ let me know!_

thingo:_ wadjamacallit, thingummy, whatsit  
_tall poppy:_ successful person  
_larrikin:_ a bloke who is always enjoying himself, harmless prankster  
_whacker:_ idiot; somebody who talks drivel; somebody with whom you have little patience_

_As for Tooth's mentioning of _Onam_ and _rakhi_: these will be explained in a future part, but feel free to look them up if you're curious :D_


	46. lesson

In The Silence

~46~

Big Root is warm and golden around them, like sunshine given form; whorls and layers of gleaming, _living_ wood polished bright by magic and countless generations of young hands fondly patting their gigantic, sheltering friend in welcome. Jack does so as well; presses his cheek against the golden grain of the hallway wall; twines about the spindles of a staircase balustrade; wraps his fingers around a wide ledge lining a hollow as he peers out to the village of Santoff Claussen beyond where children are playing with toys never before seen in the world. Big Root is warm. And golden. And it fills Jack with a sense of _belonging_, of security as encompassing as his bed of Dreamsand in Sandman's castle. Big Root is _like_ Jack, and even more so, Big Root is _like_ Nightlight.

_Big Root is a star child, and _family_, and Big Root will never, ever turn him away._

Ombric is smiling at him, a silly, sleepy smile that hides beneath his curling mustache, and Ombric's owl is smiling as well, smiling as only owls can smile in the content grinding of their beaks and in the quiet, content mumbling of coos and hoots that speak of snug rafters and nighttime flights through forests set alight by the Moon. This owl, clinging to Ombric's hat, is friendly. This owl, blinking round, golden eyes in feigned astonishment as they enter yet another room in their search for Katherine, _likes_ Jack — and Jack's quite willing to like the owl in return.

Jack's kept company with owls; perched with them in pine trees late at night. Jack's _listened_ as owls have plaintively questioned the Moon. Their questions are different: _'Who who who?'_ in place of his _Why why why?_ but it's always given Jack comfort — a guilty _selfish_ satisfaction — in knowing that the owls' questions remain as unanswered as his own. He, at least, had been given a name. He has the _who_, if little else.

He grins up at the owl, and grins up at Ombric as he hurries back to the elderly man's side, pressing close underneath the man's outstretched arm and burrowing his head into soft, rustling silk. "This is a nice place," Jacks tells them, man and owl both as they slowly walk towards another room further down the hall. "I can see why Katherine chose not to go with North; even if there were no children, Big Root would be a wonderful place to stay..."

"I've found it to be so," Ombric says as thick, white brows bunch up over his twinkling eyes, giving him the appearance of either deep thought or perpetual surprise. "Since I first discovered this place I've felt no need to move on, and I must say: Travel consumed me when I was younger. I was obsessed with discovering new places. New things. New ideas. So caught up was I in seeking out what was new, I had no appreciation for what _was_. It's something I regret, so many years later... But Big Root? This fine old fellow? Here I haven't a single regret at all."

"I'm glad." Together they look around the room, behind the door and underneath a small wicker basket upended on the floor. "Regrets aren't any fun. They squirm so." They look, but there's no sign of the storyteller and so they move back into the hall. Jack's staff trails behind them but no flowering of frost flows in their wake for Jack is holding himself _in_, holding himself back in deference to the old man and his star child home. "—Ombric?" Biting at his lip, Jack flips up a corner of a braided rag rug to peer underneath, although he doubts he'll find Katherine there; he wouldn't have bothered looking if the elderly man hadn't checked beneath the last four rugs they'd passed. He isn't sure _how_ Katherine could hide underneath a rug — no matter how lumpy — but Big Root is a place of magic and rules bent unknowingly, and _anything_ is possible.

He's not sure _how_ he knows this, but the certainty of it fills him. _Anything is possible_, if only once — and that includes the implausibility of a full-grown woman successfully hiding beneath a mostly flat if somewhat rumpled rag rug.

"Yes?" Ombric is checking behind a painting, a portrait that happened to be covering a twisting tunnel at the end of which daylight gleams— and Jack feels somewhat better as he flips over the next decorative carpet. "Oh, and since we're looking, if you happen to come across a mechanical gibbon just give a shout. Well, I don't suppose _shouting_ will be a problem — feisty contraption likes to lunge at a body, but Wilhelmina lost it a few days ago and we haven't managed to recapture it."

"Gibbon?" The word is unfamiliar to Jack, but he brings his staff to bear just in case a lunging gibbon is anything like a lunging shadow. "Uh, and mechanical?" He's not nervous, not with Big Root's laughter echoing around him, but frost now covers the hallway's floor and the hem of the man's silk robe as Jack taps the end of his staff speculatively against a hat rack that wobbles at the rough touch.

"Hmm? A gibbon is a type of monkey, and mechanical is... well... it's..." Letting the painting swing back down into place, Ombric pauses to reposition his hat causing the owl perched upon it to hoot in annoyance at being so rudely jarred. "It's complicated. Quite literally. But I doubt that's what you meant to ask about. Although, if you're interested, I can recommend several books—"

"No! That is..." Shaking his head — and keeping an eye out for lurking, complicated monkey creatures — Jack shrugs, and slides one foot through the thin layer of frost slowly starting to melt on the carpet. "What is a wizard, Ombric? Is it a man, or something else? You said _you're_ a wizard, almost as though it's a job, like a tailor or, or a clerk. So is it a job? Or a title? Or something else?"

"That — is an excellent question, my boy." Ombric nods as though agreeing with himself; nods and wraps his arm around Jack's shoulders and escorts him down the spiraling staircase to the large, cozy room below. It's a room Jack's familiar with; magical flames dance and leap in bursts of vibrant color within the fireplace and upon the arm of one thickly cushioned chair Mr. Qwerty sleeps, his slowly fluttering wings alive with the watercolor splash of images taken from his dreams. "And the answer, I'm afraid, is a _sitting_ sort of answer. Actually, it's a _bedtime_ sort of answer, but I doubt you'll stay long enough for _that_. Sit, sit," he commands, patting the cushioned seat of the chair. "Sit, and I'll explain."

Jack sits, taking care not to disturb the slumbering book. The chair is pliant beneath him and the fabric is warm from the fire — and neither feeling is particularly pleasant. It's not a chair meant for a frost child; his bare feet leave ugly smirches on the pale velveteen, forcing him to sit as an adult might sit with his back stiff and straight and his toes curling uncomfortably against the wooden floor. He's sorry he's dirtied the pretty chair, _Katherine's_ chair, and he rubs his fingers against the marks hoping the dust might brush off, but he only succeeds in spreading the stain.

"No need to fret," Ombric tells him, noticing his growing frustration with the smudge. "That chair is brown far more often than tan, and by this evening it may be aqua, or perhaps viridian. It all depends on what mood the children are in — and which paints escape their parents' supervision." He chuckles as he pulls over a stool; grunts as he sits down amidst awkwardly twisting robes and misbehaving strands of beard that refuse to curl meekly in his lap. "Magic will sort it out in the end. Magic might have that chair a coal scuttle by tomorrow, although Katherine's not as forgiving of such inconveniences as she was when she was younger. And magic, my boy, is at the heart of every wizard."

"Magic..." His staff rests across his lap and his hands rest across his staff — and he _keeps_ them there, for they want to instead caress the beautiful, flowing pages that make up Mr. Qwerty's wings. They want to pet, and explore, and possibly _read_ the stories he knows are contained within. Mr. Qwerty, though, is snoring, each inhalation the raspy unfamiliar sound of tissue-thin paper tearing — and it seems a shame to wake him. Jack's never been _awakened_ from slumber, but he imagines it would be disorienting, to shift from _there_ to _here_ so quickly — so he keeps his hands in his lap and does his best to focus on Ombric.

"Magic!" This time the owl perched upon the elderly man's hat does his nodding for him. "The _fifth_ force. And while magic comes in all shapes and forms, those are merely _results_. No, at its simplest magic can be reduced down to _one_ building block, as t'were—"

"I believe."

The smile on Ombric's face is delighted, and the man laughs freely as he removes his hat and sets both it and the owl closer to the sinuous silver flames of the fire. "Oh ho! So you do, and so it **is**. Belief is the core of all magic. If a person has faith, _absolute_ faith, it can overwhelm the physical world and the impossible will happen. Faith and science, my boy; together they keep the universe spinning. Such a shame they're stuck _feuding_ each other... No matter." He waves a wrinkled hand as if forcefully dismissing an unpleasant thought. "Ahem, so belief... Tell me, Jack: What spells have you cast?"

The man's gesturing has disturbed Mr. Qwerty's rest and Jack gives in to temptation, gently patting the gilt edges of pages in an attempt to sooth the book before it wakes completely. "I wanted — I wanted children to see me," he admits quietly, biting down on his lip as he _hears_ the pain lurking in the deepest tones of his voice. "That one didn't work. I don't think _any_ of my spells have ever worked. _Be not_ failed. _Stay with me_ seems to cause people to leave _faster_. And _family_..." The hand still curled around his staff clenches, and there are excited yelps from young throats playing outside as snow falls from a perfectly clear sky.

"Family _is_ the hardest," Mr. Qwerty says from behind a yawn, drawing himself to his feet and stumbling down the chair arm to rest in the lap below. "You wish at them, and they wish at you, and you'd best grow accustomed to compromise because _no one_ will ever get precisely what they want." He yawns again, and polishes the lenses of his glasses against the soft fibers of a green and brown scarf. "Hello, Jack. I've been expecting you, but all the excitement this morning rather wore me out. I'd ask how you're doing, but it's apparent you need rescuing from Ombric's clutches."

"Clutches! Hmph." Rolling his eyes, Ombric strokes his beard and _attempts_ to look dignified. _Attempts_, for the small, glittering blue ball that falls from the depths of his beard rather nullifies his efforts. "Drat," he mutters, picking up the ball and stuffing it into one of the pockets lining his robe. "I'd _wondered_ where William the Smallest lost that..."

Mr. Qwerty rolls his eyes in turn before replacing his glasses. "Yes. Absolutely the term is _clutches_; I remember when you lost a five course supper to that beard. Now, Jack: I do believe you wanted to know about wizards."

"Yes, yes. Go ahead. Tell the boy." Ombric sniffs, and the owl next to him gives a warbling snicker. "Not like _I_ was telling the tale..."

"Indeed," the book agrees drolly as he climbs back to the arm of the chair, and Jack hides his smile behind a raised hand, afraid of offending the elderly man. "So, all magic begins with _I believe_, and a person must believe _absolutely_. Most every child is capable of this but as they grow older, _supposedly_ wiser — they begin to _doubt_. Oh, it doesn't happen to _all_ adults. Santoff Claussen is _filled_ with parents rather handy with magic. _But they're not wizards._"

"No?" Jack pulls his legs up into the chair for comfort, no longer noticing the smudges his bare feet are leaving behind. "But wizards are adults that can do magic?"

"Ahem!" Ombric interrupts over Mr. Qwerty's somewhat cynical, _"I'd scarcely call them adults."_

"It's all a matter of genetics." The wizard raises one hand, a hand glowing a radiant, rippling green — and uses it to smooth a particularly stubborn tangle out of his hair. "Not that you'd know about _genetics_, but as some babies are born with red hair and some are born with six fingers, some are _born_ with the gift—"

_"Genetic defect."_

"—of magic!" Crossing his arms, Ombric practically _pouts_ at the chortling book. "This is because I woke you up, isn't it? Well, we'll sort that out later. Suffice to say, long ago in my homeland children were born — _different_ — from others. Their _belief_... it was closer to the songs of stars than anything previously seen. And as they grew older their belief became stronger; they _themselves_ became — not quite human. They were wizards.

"Atlantis may be long lost, but wizarding blood _wants_ to survive. Perhaps this world _needs_ it to survive. I don't know. So wizards, true wizards, are rare nowadays, but wizardlings? Those with the merest touch of the gift? They're more common than most would expect."

Jack curls tighter about his staff and wraps his arms around his knees. He supposes he knows what _wizards_ are, now. He _supposes_ the explanation makes sense — if it had been given to someone other than him. Confusion, though, is all he feels. He'd _thought_ he'd found a new truth; he'd _thought_ that Ombric and Thaddeus might be the same. They _feel_ the same to his senses. But if wizards are so incredibly rare what are the chances that he'd meet _two_ in the space of a few years?

A frown twists at his lips as Jack rests his cheek against the curving hook of his staff. "...Then what is Thaddeus?"

Ombric opens his mouth to answer, then stops. Stops with mouth hanging open and bushy white brows more tufted in surprise than ever. "...Who?"

"Thaddeus," Mr. Qwerty repeats, his voice heavy with understanding. "Thaddeus Burgess. Am I right, Jack?" Without waiting for an answer, likely not truly _needing_ one, the book flutters to a soft landing atop Jack's bent knees and gently pats his upper arm. "You shouldn't doubt yourself so; your Thaddeus _is_ a wizard. A terribly powerful one for all he's untrained. He's a wizard _and_ an adult, and that's made him terribly dangerous... hasn't it?"

"He — he doesn't _mean_ to do things. He doesn't. He just doesn't _realize_..." Jack doesn't know why he's defending Thaddeus; he's _angry_ with Thaddeus and the man's constant, stifling commands disguised as requests with all the power of a heartfelt wish behind them. Thaddeus had trapped him, _bound_ him atop the graves of his children. The man has summoned him back to the settlement by the river, winter after winter, merely by _wondering_ where Jack might be.

_The man gave him the gift of communication, then warded him away from writing so _strictly_ that the _thought_ of words scratched in frost upon windows causes his stomach to clench and his fingers to tremble — and Thaddeus _does. not. know._ Thaddeus has not the slightest _clue_ as to what he's done. And Jack can't tell him. Thaddeus has made _sure_ Jack can't tell him._

"Although it's no consolation now," the book tells him, climbing daintily up his coat to perch upon his shoulder, "your Thaddeus will some day learn the true impact of his powers. I can't tell you when; no one should know _that_ much of their own story, but I can tell you that the man _will_ improve. Luckily he's an adult as well as a wizard. Wizards are remarkably fond of ruts, but adults can continue to grow. It's a shame so few make an effort."

There's a look of flustered affront on Ombric's face, but the crinkles at the corners of the old man's eyes admit to certain truths. "Jack my boy," he says after a long, silent while filled with the faint, far off laughter of children playing in the unexpected snowfall, his wrinkled hand resting on Jack's knee in the exact spot where Mr. Qwerty had stood. "I had no idea. None. Why, you aren't afraid of me at all!"

It's with honest curiosity that Jack asks, "Why should I be?"

Ruffling its feathers, the owl hoots quizzically to itself as Ombric tries his best to answer. "...Because I'm a wizard, and it seems a wizard has done you terrible wrongs. Are you not frightened that I might do the same?"

"No." And although Ombric looks as if he'd expected a different answer, _no_ is the only truthful reply Jack has to give. Likely he's _missing_ something again. Some important subtlety that's escaped him — but he doesn't care. The elderly man has been nothing but kind to him, and while the man might be a wizard there's also something about him that calls out to Jack. Something appealing, or something that _appeals_. _Ombric is one of his children._ It's strange, having a child so tall and so _old_, but the man has slipped into place, there in Jack's _self_ where all the ties to his children dwell. "Should I? You've done me no harm. Even Thaddeus doesn't _mean_ to. Don't intentions count?"

There's a wistful smile hiding behind the thickets of Ombric's mustache, and the hand on Jack's knee squeezes lightly. "They should. Yes. They most certainly should."

~o~

_**End notes:**__ And Yay for Esse slowly healing up and whining incessantly during PT! LOL! I am, though, feeling better, and sitting in the chair now to write is only slightly unpleasant rather than, "OMG!" Thank you for your well wishes. I hug you all! Please imagine little hearts and dragonflies bursting from your screen ^_~_

_Beta provided by _Kaylessa_, to whom I shall forever be indebted ^_^_

_Many tearful, weepy, mushy thanks to _Alaia Skyhawk, lurkerlaine, Eternal She-Wolf, Twilight Cardmistress, Magiccatprincess, SecretSnow, Breezyfeather, hiddenworldwalker, Sora Tayuya, Nocturnal Leanings, TriplePivotTurn, LiviahEternal, Crystal Peak, UVNight, Smoochynose, Alana-kittychan, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, DragonsFlame117, RandomKrazyPerson, DragonflyonBreak, blackkyu, Bookworm Gal, Rahar Moonfire, hi, savedbygrace94, Hannah, Dragowolf, Fumus000, LCAAS, Kaylessa, hisokauzumaki, Soshoryu, Anne Camp, whylime, dizappearingirl, LOSTcharlie-claireLOST, melancholyblood, I F T S, Nique17, HerHiddenSecret, I'll get to it eventually_, and _xxDarkHuntress23xx_ for their reviews. I am so sorry for making you all wait so long for this part — but hopefully you'll not need to wait nearly as long for the next. I wuvvles you!_

_And I do hope everyone's preordered _RotG_ for this Tuesday, yes? Yes yes yes?_

magic is the fifth force:_ The four fundamental forces (or interactions) of physics are gravitation, electromagnetism, strong nuclear, and weak nuclear. Magic, of course, trumps them all._

Jack's met two wizards:_ Oh, Jack. You've actually been around __**4**__ wizards in the last 24 hours._

_For those that missed it, Esse wrote a little ficlet called _Oh So Pleasant_. It actually, kinda, sorta takes place in _Silence's_ future. Tell me if I should add on :p_

_And since Mr. Qwerty was feeling talkative..._

_**excerpt from the pages of Mr. Qwerty**_

For all that stars seem to be solitary beings, aloof and distant, they are actually social creatures. Stars sing to each other over the vast distances of space, and the songs of stars are the most powerful spells in existence because the _belief_ of stars is without end. And for all that stars love the Void, they also cherish life in all the myriad forms it takes. For the one thing a star fears most is being alone.

Stars took it upon themselves to be guardians of life; to encourage and nurture life wherever they found it. The bravest of stars consented to be placed into star forges, allowing them to travel in the great ships of their allies across distances otherwise unmanageable — for stars are notoriously hard to move. Stars less brave — but no less kind — sent out their beloved children to chase away threatening shadows and to ease the fears of those that could not glow on their own. Star children did not fear darkness; indeed, darkness was a poor, frail imitation of their father the Void, and they'd laugh as they chased the shadows away. Never _too_ far away, though; otherwise, there'd be nothing to chase the next day.

The very youngest of star children, however, were given an even more important task. Frost children — those that had not yet kindled into brightness — were sent to planets where life struggled the hardest; where emerging intelligence battled heat, or cold, or drought without end. Frost children cooled scorched land and taught gentleness to onslaughts of ice. Frost children brought moisture to crops or shepherded away storm clouds when harvests were due. Frost children were beloved and they loved their charges in turn, and life flourished throughout the galaxy.

Sadly, life wasn't as farseeing as the stars. Great civilizations arose and in the Golden Age the greatest gift ever given by the stars was used to capture all the shadows of creation and bind them in one place. Even the Void was conquered and jailed, and the universe began filling with bright, blinding light. Life came near to dooming itself. And the Constellations ignored the pleas of the stars to open the door of the prison of lead before it was too late — for shadows forced together _plot_ and become far more dangerous than fleeting wisps of fear.

All know how the Golden Age ended; how the shadows engineered their escape and swallowed their jailor whole, leaving behind the horror that was the Nightmare King. Possessed entirely by shadows, Pitch loathed all light and waged war upon those that dwelled in it, as well as those that _cast_ it. Over the long centuries of battle Pitch earned many names, and the most terrible of them all was _Star Slayer_.

Star children fought. And lost, twisted into Fearlings that swelled the ranks of Pitch's armies. In desperation, their song broken for the very first time by doubt, the stars called upon their youngest children for rescue. Frost children tearfully left their charges and returned to their parents' sides; left their worlds to protect the stars from oblivion and to save the Void from the corrupting influence of a universe out of balance. Frost children left...

...and never returned.

The last remaining star child, Nightlight, battled the Nightmare King and struck him such a grievous blow that Pitch was bound for millennia on a small, unknown planet far from the ruins of the Constellations' civilization. Without a leader shadows fled and _faded_ for there was no one left upon whom they could feed. And the stars that remained gathered their strength and lifted their voices in song: A dirge for all the children they'd lost.

So it was with great surprise that the last wizard of Atlantis, Ombric Shalazar, found a frost child peering through a window of his home and companion Big Root. It is possible that only Ombric, of all the men inhabiting the world, understood the significance of a frost child, for Ombric _remembered_ when the frost children of the earth were called away. Only Ombric understood, and it filled him with hope for the future.

Jack Frost was the first star child born since the fall of the Golden Age, and the stars themselves rejoiced.

~o~

_And, of course, the second part of _Fumus000's_ drabble :D Because, you know, there wasn't nearly enough angst in this part... Hope you like it, dearling! Actually, I hope it turned out okay — everyone started getting all gabby at the end o.o I so do not know..._

~o~

It's hard to get Tooth moving. Jamie's already halfway up the narrow, crooked stairs, and the boy's footprints stand out accusingly against years of accumulated dust. Bunny's had enough of the aged, _creepy_ house full of relics of a past that couldn't have existed; heirlooms out of place and artifacts from around the world that never should have found their way to what would have been a small, tight knit community whose only reliable source of trade was the modest river running through the valley.

It _is_ one of North's snow globes on the table, small and sparkling and perfect as Bunny carefully picks it up. Yet it's far _more_ than one of North's snow globes; by the delicate carving and brilliant, bold colors he can tell it's one of Tashi's pieces. The Yeti artist had taught _him_ a trick or four, and as far as Bunny knows her creations have never left Yeti lands. Yet here is this snow globe — the masterwork of a master craftsman — and within its crystal globe is this very house as once it must have stood, proud and beautiful, grand dame of the vibrant young town of Burgess.

It's impossible. As impossible as the feather earrings Tooth's clutching, holding to her chest as if they're still attached to one of her faeries. She's cooing, ever so softly — and it's to reassure herself, Bunny realizes. She's _cooing_ with Baby Tooth perched on her shoulder, her helper's beak worriedly running through Tooth's plumage; the Guardian of Memory is _crying_ and cooing and looking near to coming undone—

And Bunny wants to _leave_. Ever so much. It's a feeling that stands his fur on end; that spasms his muscles and triggers long dormant instincts to _flee_. _This house doesn't like him._ He's never hurt a child; he could _never_ harm a child — and yet the house accuses him of precisely that.

_He _hurt_ her favorite child — and she wants him gone. Immediately. If he would be so kind._

"I'm not going to bail out now," he mutters to both the ghostly presence of the home and to Jamie waiting impatiently on the stair, his tapping foot raising fine clouds of dust that sparkle with reflected moonlight. Stepping lightly across frayed carpets, Bunny places a paw on Tooth's unoccupied shoulder and gives the faerie a gentle shake. "Hey? Let's take a squizz at this room the ankle biter's going on about, then we'll go. Doesn't set right, fossicking through this place. Can you feel it?"

Shaking hands return the earrings to the opened display case, and Toothiana closes the case with the same care normally reserved for a child's first lost tooth. "She really doesn't like you," Tooth answers, placing a hand over the paw resting on her shoulder. "Whatever did you do?"

"Wish I knew..." Bunny escorts her up the staircase; the wood underfoot creaks alarmingly and he's pathetically, gratefully glad that Tooth is hovering instead of adding her miniscule weight to the overburdened stairs. There are more rooms on the second floor, but there's no time to look through them; Jamie's waiting for them at the end of a short hall. "I doubt it's Pitch this old gal's worked up about; him and his minions are the only ones I've ever gone rounds with. Well, besides Jack..." Hunching his shoulders protectively, Bunny shakes his head roughly as if the violent motion might break loose the guilt he feels over those particular memories. Yeah, he'd attacked the smug larrikin — although he knows _now_ there'd been no malice behind that fateful Easter Sunday blizzard. He'd attacked, and he plans to make amends for that, even if it takes years. But it wasn't like Frost was some defenseless ankle biter, either. It can't be _that_ that's so upset the tranquility of the house...

"So mate," he asks the boy, squatting down to eye level although it's hard to meet the accusation prevalent in the child's normally trusting gaze. "What is it you wanted to show us?"

Jamie glowers, disbelief and sheer annoyance momentarily robbing him of his voice. "You know," he says after a hard, gulping swallow that manages to choke back rising anger, "a law was made nearly two hundred years ago — and it's still on the books even though newcomers to Burgess try to get it removed every few years. Here it's a _crime_ to harm winter children. Or any spirit associated with snow, I guess." He continues to glare at the Pooka as he violently twists the knob and pushes the door open. "I looked it up. —Cousin Jack is specifically mentioned."

"_Cousin Jac...k..,_"Bunny begins — but can't continue. The door's been opened and he can't unsee what lies inside. Neither can he _believe_ what he sees; not when he stumbles forward, not when he falls to his knees in front of dozens upon dozens of pictures hanging from the walls and resting on the floor. Oils and acrylics and watercolors, chalk drawings on slate and finger-paints on construction paper. No matter the medium they all share a common theme. In each picture there's a boy white of hair and blue of eyes smiling wildly — and playing in snow.

Some of the pictures are obvious children's work; great globs of color lacking any detail. And some of the pictures, still the work of young minds, have the pale boy small as one of Tooth's fairies or large as a cloud — and most only share the vaguest resemblance to Jack. A few, however... Sketches, drawings, an elegantly framed painting taking pride of place on the wall, are the creations of skilled artists — and their subject matter is indisputably Jack Frost.

Toothiana is frozen in the doorway, her breathing quick and shallow as Baby Tooth darts about excitedly from picture to picture, chattering and clapping in absolute joy. "How?" she asks breathlessly. "How is this possible?"

Bunny presses a paw to the brass plate of the large painting in front of him — and wheezes. "Cousin Jack by Ruth Anne Burgess... 1895. I — I don't understand. No one believed in Jack Frost; no one _saw_ him, until **you**. What _is_ this, Jamie?" Anger's always come too easily to him, because anger's far easier to deal with than confusion. "What kind of prank is this?!"

Jamie's kneeling at the far corner of the room, his backpack opened in front of him while he rummages inside. Looking up, he shrugs with studied carelessness learned by watching his best friend's dealings with the Guardian of Hope. It's a shrug meant to infuriate. "You're right. _No one_ believed in Jack Frost. But _every_ Burgess in town knows the story of Cousin Jack." His voice takes on the sing-song quality of something learned by rote.

_"Cousin Jack the winter child saved Thaddeus Burgess and his family from the bitter winter of 1795. And Cousin Jack saved the entire town from famine by holding back winter in 1816. Always treat Cousin Jack respectfully and invite him to your games, for all he wants is friendship and a chance to join your play."_ Smiling sheepishly, Jamie ducks his head as he pulls out a slightly crinkled piece of paper from his backpack. "My Dad was a Burgess. He taught me the legend not long before he, well..." Another shrug, a _smaller_ shrug meant only for himself. "All the children are told stories of our _Cousin_ Jack... and Dad said, if I was really lucky and kept both my mind and my heart open — I might be able to see him when I grew up.

"I asked Jack about it." Painstakingly smoothing the creases out of the paper, Jamie proudly leans his crayon masterpiece next to a charcoal study. It's his favorite out of all the pictures he's done. It's Jack — the very first time he _saw_ him in his room, surrounded by snowflakes and a look of indescribable joy on his face. Jamie wasn't able to capture that moment, not in crayon upon lined paper, but every time he looks at the picture — he remembers. "He said there's always been wizards in the Burgess family, and that any child that grew up to be a wizard could see him."

There's a dazed, far away look in Tooth's lilac eyes as she slowly walks from picture to picture, studying each one as if in search of some elusive answer. They speak to her, for each childish doodle holds a heartfelt wish; they're memories that never made their way into her palace. Every Burgess child wishing they might grow up to be a wizard — not for the magic, and not for the power, but for the _chance_ to meet their beloved cousin.

_When will my frost child play once more in my halls?_ the house asks her, and the plaintiveness of the question brings fresh tears to Tooth's eyes.

"I still don't get it," Bunny admits, ears pressed tightly against his skull in distress. "If all you ankle biters believed in Jack — why couldn't you see him?"

"Magic doesn't follow rules; at least, not the ones we're used to." Standing, the boy slings his backpack over his shoulder, nearly overbalancing. "It was the day after the battle with Pitch that I made the connection. —And as soon as I told my cousins Jack's last name, every _one_ of them could see him. And then we had to keep Jack from bashing his head against the wall; two hundred years — and he never realized he hadn't told any of the Burgesses his last name!" Jamie's laughter is loud, but not unwelcome. "So we took him out for ice cream, and then we played hide and seek — and I don't think I've ever seen anyone as happy as Jack was, each time one of us found him. ...Although he wasn't really hiding all that well. Being invisible for so long, I guess he never needed to learn how."

It's funny, but Bunny can't laugh. He can barely breathe, because he _gets it_ now. Cousin Jack. _Cousin_ Jack. Generations of Burgesses innately understood the truth that Bunny's just now beginning to grasp. There was no _uncle_ Jack or _grandpa_ Jack, just eternally young _cousin_ Jack because Jack Frost...

...is a frost _child_.

"Tooth," he keens, and his blindly reaching paw is caught by the fairy; caught and pressed between warm, soft hands. "I can't. I can't! I keep trying to make up for the mistakes I've made, but how can I make up for this? How?"

Tooth is hugging him, and Jamie is hugging him as well, and even Baby Tooth is clutching a hank of his fur and warbling reassurance. None of it helps. What he needs — isn't here. He needs — to speak with himself.

"It's okay, Bunny," Jamie tells him with all the authority a young boy can muster. "I didn't bring you here to make you sad. You said you wanted to know how Jack couldn't recognize his own tombstone — and this is why. Jack's always been part of the Burgess family. A long, long time ago he might have died, but to _us_ he's always been alive. And even though he knows about his past now — he hasn't made the connection, because why would Thaddeus put up a tombstone for someone still living?"

Long after Toothiana leaves to escort Jamie home, Bunny sits in the room filled with lovingly rendered images of a frost child that had never given up hope, and waits to hear the sound of a Pooka's feet upon the stairs.

~o~

_Definitions for expressions most likely misused:_  
squizz: look, as in, "Take a squizz at this!"  
fossick: search, rummage

~o~

_And, finally, _Kaylessa's_ drabble. -huggles- I don't think it's quite what you were wanting, and you deserve so much better, but this is what wanted to be written ^^;; At least we get to end with a bit of warm fuzzy... angst. Huh. Who knew angst could be warm and fuzzy?_

~o~

He's lying atop his lake, resting upon ice grown brittle as winter gracefully gives way to spring. Water wells up from cracks and soaks into the back of his hoodie and pants, but he pays it little mind. His entire existence has revolved around water in one form or another, and it seems fitting to share this night with the lake that had birthed him.

_The lake that had killed him,_ he knows now. He knows, oh, _so_ many things, now. And it's tempting, so terribly tempting to surrender his reclaimed memories to the lake once more, because he's not all that sure what to _do_ with them.

_He's not that boy_ though he has the memories. _That's not his family_ though the ache behind his closed eyelids begs to differ. _His first general of winter_ couldn't have been his _sister_. Yet the face in the memories matches exactly the face in his dreams, and Jack can't tell if the bleating sound escaping from his mouth is a laugh, or a sob.

He remembers. He remembers _everything_.

_A laugh of water sounds the same as a sob_ and he wants so badly to be at the bottom of his lake. He wasn't that brown-haired brown-eyed boy in his memories. He _wasn't_ that lost, hopeless waif abandoned by the Moon. He wasn't, isn't, _couldn't_ be...

But the memories say otherwise.

He opens his eyes and stares up at the stars overhead, but their song offers no comfort. In his left hand he holds his memory box. _His ossuary_, he thinks grimly; resting place for his only earthly remains. Baby teeth grown frail with time that safeguard all the memories of his childhood, and hidden inside the enameled gold yet _another_ box, a smaller box, containing one unbelievably heavy tooth that holds _all_ of his memories. Every. single. one.

No one should have to remember their death. But it's there. It's there — and it mocks him.

His right hand presses against Snowflake; presses against gold and possibility and love. His moonbeam's been asleep since being returned. Likely Snowflake's been asleep since the last confrontation with Pitch in Burgess. _Which... is something he'll need to look in to. Perhaps the Lady's been away too long. Perhaps..._ Snowflake's dreams are a moonbeam's dreams — and something more. Jack's always known that, but tonight the knowledge strikes hard and draws forth anguish.

"Did you know?" he asks the moonbeam. "Did you know she was my sister?"

He needs resolution and so he follows the beckoning thread of Snowflake's dreams. Follows until he's in the dream of a frost child, of a village forever caught in time, forever at the verge of twilight, forever _missed_. It's grown over the years as old friends settled; it's grown, and yet it's exactly the same as the first time he came. Children — friends, family, _family_ — play in the snow, intent on their games...

_"Hello, Jack."_

...and she's at his side. His girl-child. His first general of winter. _His sister._ She's holding his hand and smiling at him _smiling at a secret finally revealed_ and she's warm where she presses against his side and her hair smells of wood smoke where it presses against his cheek.

Tears escape him — and they aren't the tears of a frost child at all but droplets of liquid light. "Why?" he asks her, whispering the question into the shell of her ear before leaning back to drink in the familiarity of her face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

_"What is the greater truth? I was your general of winter for more years than I was your sister, even while I was living. —And you were so terribly fragile."_ He loves her smile; he's _always_ loved her smile, and Jack wants it _back_ as she tells him these things. Instead, the sorrow brimming in her warm brown eyes is pain enough it might kill him a second time. _"If you had known who I was, would you have had the strength to go back after your first visit? Or any of the times after? Now that you do know... are you tempted to stay? For this,"_ she sweeps her arm outwards, encompassing the village and the forest beyond, _"is no place for the living."_

He ducks his head, petulantly kicking at soft, cool snow. "Not like I'm alive."

_"Oh, Jack."_ She hugs him; wraps her arms around him with all the fierce strength he remembers from countless piggy-back rides given centuries ago. _"I don't think there's anyone that's _lived_ more than you. Your life has been exceedingly strange, I'll grant you that, but who else can claim they've met their sister nearly three hundred years after they've both passed on?"_

She means to cheer him, but Jack feels _wronged_ somehow. Not by her — never by her — but by _circumstances_. Three hundred years of desperate wondering; of raging, and pleading, and eventual feigned indifference leading up to _this_. A revelation that could have _saved_ him so much heartache, if only he'd received it sooner.

Three centuries sooner.

Memories that his lake had faded to pale remnants are fresh and brilliant as a bruise in his mind. He's angry, and he's been angry since sitting down to view the rest of the memories faithfully preserved inside the enameled gold box. He'd sat down upon his lake underneath the watchful gaze of the Moon, eager to view the rest of his childhood. That is, after all, what baby teeth contained; all the best of a child's memories. What he'd gotten instead was a tooth in its own sealed container, a tooth nearly too heavy to hold. _A tooth that contained each and every moment of _both_ his lives, memories he'd gladly given to the water, memories he's _never_ wanted, and his slightest stray thought floods him with remembrances so _bitter_ it feels like he's drowning again._

"I nearly killed you," he tells her, his voice hard and edged with self-loathing. "The blizzard you got caught in, it was _mine_."

_"You saved my life,"_ she tells him, as her grip around him impossibly tightens. _"I went out on the ice when you _told_ me to stay back."_

A tremor wracks his body and shakes them both, and his voice _shatters_ when he admits, "I let you die."

Her own voice is softer than snow caught on a breeze as she whispers into his ear, _"I made you _live_. I think I've got you beat."_

It startles a laugh from him, a great, gasping choke of a laugh as he allows himself to relax in his sister's embrace. "I didn't know it was a contest."

_"Everything with you is a contest, Jack!"_ She loosens her hold but keeps a firm clasp on his hand. _"Betcha, dare ya, race ya!"_ She giggles lightly, as carefree as when she'd been a child playing with her older brother in freshly fallen snow. _"I've stayed here all this time, just to make sure you _didn't_. I've stayed here while so many others have moved on. And I think I'll stay a while longer — for you owe me a skating trip. Shh,"_ she cautions, smoothing the tip of her finger over his forming frown. _"It's okay. It was a long, long time ago, though I know you remember it like yesterday. I love you, Jack. And I loved skating with you best of all. Do say you'll come with. I promise you, the ice _here_ can never crack."_

"Ice skating, huh?" He knows there's a lake just beyond the forest's edge; he knows it's there, though he's never seen it. And he knows in this timeless, placeless place there will be ice skates waiting for them — even if he doesn't need them. And he _knows_ this is his sister's way of helping him cope with an avalanche of memories he cannot deal with on his own... "Think you're good enough to take on the master?"

There's a smirk on her face, a naughty, mocking _grin_ that matches his own. _"How 'bout I race ya!"_ she gleefully shouts as she shoves him hard, knocking him down into the soft, powdery snow and vaulting over him before he has the chance to do more than grunt at the impact. _"What are you waiting for, slowpoke?"_

Blinking, he scrapes snow from his face — and whoops. "You're on!" he screams at her retreating back, and within seconds he's flying after her, dark memories once more forgotten in favor of the present. Later, he'll deal with them.

Now, he has a little sister to school.


	47. compass

In The Silence

~47~

Jack knows much about silence and all its many qualities. Silence — seldom _is_. There's always _some_ noise, some disturbance inherent in silence; even on the high paths so far above the world silence is streaked with loud, clamoring thoughts and the questions of moonbeams, or disturbed by the giddy giggles and childish taunts of sunbeams. Silence is a matter of _degrees_ and there's something dreadful in the idea that somehow, somewhere silence might be absolute.

_Even the Void is filled with starsong._

The silence of Big Root is a noisy, inquisitive thing filled with the burbling laughter of children filtering in from outside; inside is the crackling of a magical fire that forever burns but never consumes. It is a silence of an owl grinding its beak as it blinks in sleepy, simple pleasure and it is a silence of rasping silk robes as a wizard leans forward on his stool to scowl at a book lazily flicking the pages of his wings back and forth as they argue—

—in silence.

It's a steady, swaddling silence filled to overflowing with the amusement of a moonbeam and the curiosity of the uninvited Wind; unable to stay away from its child any longer, it sneaks in through uncovered hollows to eddy in aimless circles across the floor and up the stairs. It's a comforting, tender silence punctuated by the rustling of snow-dusted leaves and the syrupy-thick slurps of a tree drinking light. It's a fidgeting, anxious silence of a frost child grown _bored_ of sitting _entirely_ too close to the room's warm hearth — and Jack _breaks_ the silence with a relieved shout of, "Katherine!" as the door to Big Root opens revealing the storyteller's lovely face.

"Why, Jack!" The shoulders of her cloak are dusted with snow, as is the wide brim of her flower-bedecked bonnet, but it's the rosy glow of her cheeks that proves how much she'd been enjoying the unexpected weather. Grey eyes sparkle as both bonnet and cloak are removed and hung to dry on pegs grown naturally from Big Root's walls, but her blush remains as she steps into the room in a swirl of skirts and the scent of resin. "I should have known by the snow. What a surprise!" Her smile is wry and her fingers are chilled as they sweep through Jack's hair in fond welcome. "I'd no idea you were coming. Mr. Qwerty," she clicks her tongue reprovingly, "why didn't you warn me?"

"My dear girl." The shrug of a book is a curious gesture; a ripple of bindings and a dipping of pages swirled in ink. "This is Jack's story, and you know the harm that comes of reading ahead." There's a smug glint reflecting from the lenses of his glasses, a knowing twist lurking at the corner of his mouth as he smiles benignly. "As I told you when last you tried looking; his tale is off-limits. For now."

"Foo," Katherine says as she kneels gracefully on the floor, resting her chin upon Ombric's shoulder. "That's _always_ your excuse." She hugs the old man with a happy sigh, and the brown tips of cracked, leather work boots peek from underneath the lace-trimmed edges of her skirts. "Had I known Jack was coming, I would have baked. Didn't think of that, did you?"

"It's Christmas morning," is Mr. Qwerty's prompt reply. "The entire village is full of pastries and pies. Besides, I'm sure we _all_ remember your last culinary attempt. Or need I remind you of the Great Dough Beast of '83?"

There's a different kind of twinkle in Ombric's eyes as he gently strokes Katherine's long, dark hair. "Such things will happen," he says, mirth lightening his voice. "And the Bear certainly appreciates the company. Don't let the old grumpworm get you down. There's no such thing as failure — only unforeseen opportunities. Besides... _someone_ woke up crotchety this morning."

They're laughing, the storyteller and the wizard, and even Mr. Qwerty is chuckling quietly. Jack's not _sure_ why they're laughing — a dough beast sounds ominous and _failure_... Failure isn't funny at all. He _knows_ failure, and he knows that failure destroys opportunities. He's intimately acquainted with failure and the hollow, aching hurt it leaves behind. He's _failed_ every single day since first he was raised from his lake and he's _never_ felt the need to laugh over it. Though perhaps their laughter is like his smile; that crooked, misplaced smile that escapes him at each failure. The smile that mocks him, for daring to dream of some different outcome.

_He hopes not. He wishes better for them. He wants to believe it might be better for them._

Jack climbs out of the overly plush chair, his staff held loosely at his side, for he's listened in on lessons given by Thaddeus to Teddy. Lessons on etiquette and the proper behavior of a gentleman. A gentleman should rise when a lady enters a room — and Jack can't help but smile crookedly, for he's remembered too late, after Katherine has been forced to sit on the floor — and it's but another, tiny failure to add to all the others.

"Sorry for taking your chair," he apologizes, stepping back and to the side, too near the blazing fire that doesn't burn but stirs up memories that _do_. Frost stiffens the fabric of his coat protectively; with effort he keeps the ice from dousing the flames. And the small, crooked smile lingers on his lips, no matter how much he wants it to leave. "And — sorry for the snow. I know you weren't expecting it."

"Do sit back down," Katherine tells him kindly. "You fret so. The snow is a _wonderful_ surprise; North was terribly cross thinking that the children wouldn't get a white Christmas. I do believe he owes you a gratitude. Please sit, and I'll fix us lunch — despite Mr. Qwerty's opinion on my culinary skills."

He moves away from the fire, and away from the chair as well for the dirty imprints of bare feet ground into the pale fabric stand out accusingly; even _if_ magic changes the chair later on, the stains are there _now_ and he _hears_ Rachel's echoing voice, filling him with guilt over extra work and unappreciated mischief. "I — I can't stay," Jack says, shaking his head and leaning into the support of his staff. "I've been here too long already. I only came to ask where I might find North. Do you know, Katherine?"

"North?" Clear grey eyes blink slowly then slide towards the wizard seated at her side. "You came to Santoff Claussen looking for North? Jack... it started snowing nearly an hour ago."

"Yes." Jack agrees, for it seems to him Katherine is waiting for some response even though she's yet to ask him a question. "I told Ombric about North, and he agreed you would know where he is. So we looked all over Big Root for you — although I'm still not sure _how_ you would have hidden underneath the rugs—" He's interrupted when Katherine, a frown creeping across her petal-pink lips, abruptly stands and slaps the back of the wizard's head hard enough to raise a protesting yowl from the elderly man. "—Katherine?"

"You incorrigible reprobate!" the woman chides, smacking the wizard's head again for good measure. "I mean, _really_, Ombric? Jack's obviously on business and you waste his time searching for me? Under _rugs_?"

"My dear!" To forestall another smack Ombric hastily picks up his hat and places it atop his head, ignoring the complaints of the rudely awakened owl. "The boy _asked_ for **you**. And when you find out _why_ he's after North, well..." Grinning unrepentantly up at the woman, he winks a saucy, naughty wink as if inviting her in on a joke. "Besides," he continues as the twinkle in his eyes fades into some sorrowful remembrance, "Jack's a frost child, and it's been so _long_ since a frost child last scampered upon this world. Have you any idea—"

"Ombric." There's warning in Mr. Qwerty's quiet interruption, and his pages are flared and daubed in bright red. "Jack's story is only beginning, and what you once _knew_ is no longer — accurate. Not completely. Let it be."

Jack's not sure why Katherine is glowering, or why Mr. Qwerty's stopped Ombric's explanation. He doesn't understand why the owl has ruffled its feathers until it's a soft, round ball, or why Big Root gives a single pulse of anguish. He doesn't know _why_ no one wants the tale of a frost child told — and he smiles _that_ smile, so crooked, so contrite. "Frost children play," he says softly, and his words bring a silence that blankets the other occupants of the room. "I play with my children. And sometimes I play tricks, as all children do. It's my duty."

"...Jack." This time it's Katherine that breaks the silence, only the silence _lingers_ in her shadowed eyes. _Echoes_ in the words that form upon her lips only to be swallowed back down unheard. She tips her head; _stares_ at Big Root's lofty ceiling of golden wood and wipes away a droplet of moisture creeping down her cheek. There's a catch in her sigh as she looks back down; a tremble in the fingers that she wraps around Jack's own that are, in turn, clenched about his staff in a grip that strains the tendons in his hand. "Very true. As you are true to your duty. Tell me: Why do you seek North?"

Her touch floods him with warmth despite the chill permeating her fingers; her touch _feels_ the way he's imagined Rachel's might feel, as he's watched the woman tuck her children into bed for the night. It is the touch of a mother _as is only right_ for all of Jack's children... are Katherine's as well. And the smile that stretches his lips isn't crooked at all.

"He stole cookies!" he tells her indignantly as he wraps his legs around his staff, taking care that his hand doesn't slip out from underneath hers. "Just reached right into the tin and _took_ them! He came down the chimney! _He wasn't invited!_" And that, perhaps, is what rankles worst of all. _He_ needs to be invited. _Waiting for an invite is only polite._ A _gentleman_ would wait for an invitation. A gentleman _certainly_ wouldn't sneak into someone's home in the middle of the night brandishing a sack filled with goods of dubious provenance. "He impersonated Sinterklaas, then left me a _sled_ as if that made it okay!"

Katherine is laughing, though she's trying to hide it behind her upraised hand. She's laughing, but the dimples in her rosy cheeks betray her. She's _tittering_ as her shoulders heave underneath the delicate floral patterning of her shawl...

_He doesn't like being laughed at._

With a harsh jerk he frees his hand from her grasp and leaps back, settling atop the crook of his staff ready to flee up the staircase to the beckoning exit beyond. The motion, however, spills Aster Bunny from his coat pocket. The falling toy makes no sound as it hits the floor, and its soundless thump is loud enough to drown out Katherine's laughter. As quickly as he jumps from his perch to retrieve the toy, Katherine is faster; she picks up Aster Bunny — and there's not a trace of amusement left on her features as she gently strokes the stuffed rabbit's ears before handing the toy back to him. Jack doesn't know why the crooked smile is back, bitter upon his lips as he carefully returns Aster Bunny to his pocket; he doesn't know why he feels ashamed _for he loves Aster Bunny_ except... Katherine had been laughing, and he doesn't know what he'll do if she starts laughing again.

"Jack." The same slender hands that had stroked Aster Bunny's ears are cupping his face, thumbs cool upon his cheeks as fingers tangle in his hair. He doesn't want to face her concern, doesn't want to look into her clear gaze and risk seeing hidden mirth lurking behind her kindness _but he has no choice._ Palms calloused from years of both work and play tilt his head up, and lips softer than autumn's first snow press against his forehead, forcing his eyes wide. "Dear heart, it is _North_ I'm laughing at. I warned him time and again the perils of trying to usurp Saint Nicholas Day. I imagine a lot of children awoke confused this morning, along with their concerned parents. And you're absolutely right: North should have waited for an invitation before entering other's homes. Those will come in time, but for now..."

Katherine's kiss is different from the cruel-kind woman's. And Jack isn't sure _why_. They're both mothers, and they're _both_ the most beautiful woman in the world, but Katherine's kiss is the oil lamp aglow on the bedside table as children snuggle under covers awaiting a story while the lady's kiss was frost clinging to the edges of the velvet petals of an apple blossom that dared bloom too early in spring.

She straightens, and runs her thumb across his brow as if trying to rub her kiss away. "I think it will do North a world of good to listen to your complaint. Nicholas St. North has been a wizard far longer than ever he was a bandit; unfortunately, it's the banditry he falls back on whenever he attempts grand plans. He positively _thrives_ on sneakiness—"

"And yet somehow doesn't realize stealth is impossible while he's wearing a brilliant red coat and hobnail boots, _never mind_ the bellows he lets loose with whenever he feels the need to break into _Hopak_ dance..." There's a tartness to Mr. Qwerty's observation, a cheerful censure that Jack agrees with wholeheartedly. North had scarcely been _subtle_ during their encounter.

"At least we talked him into giving up his pistols," Ombric offers sheepishly. "Those — were a bit much. Although I don't know if breaking into houses wielding Royal Slavic Hackers is much better..."

"Indeed." There's a smile on Katherine's face, a smile that begs to be returned — and although it doesn't feel quite right _crooked_ and _tight_ enough to twist his stomach, Jack smiles back at her. "Yes, this is _exactly_ what North needs. The man's brimming full of wonder but not an ounce of common sense." Nodding decisively, she walks to the mantle overhanging the fireplace and takes down an intricate, golden device. "It's a compass," she tells Jack, reaching out to place it in his hand. "A very _special_ compass — that will always point towards North. He made it for me when I was a young girl, so I might always know where he is."

The weight surprises Jack, whose largest burden 'til now has been his Snowflake moonbeam. The compass is _heavy_ and a responsibility he's not sure he wants, but if it will help him find the cookie thief...

"It's a loan, understand," she says winsomely as she lightly pats his fingers to encourage them to curl around the strange device. "Bring it back once you've found North and given him a proper talking-to. Preferably return it _with_ North; it's been too long since he's been by for a proper visit but I doubt you'll be able to pry him away from his workshop. _Return_ Jack, and I'll have lunch waiting for you any time of night or day. I _crave_ sane conversation, surrounded as I am by children and wizards."

"_Ahem_," Mr. Qwerty clears his throat, crossing tiny arms in reproach as the owl hoots its own objection. "And what am I, then?"

"A butterfly book," Jack replies guilelessly, rushing forward to stroke his fingers down gilt-edged pages in goodbye. The hand of the compass swings at his movement and points towards the elaborate N embossed at the tip. "Wind!" he cries in excitement as he lifts into the air, eager to be off. First, though, he catches the wizard in a hug, nestling his head in the silk-covered juncture between the man's shoulder and neck. "Bye, Ombric," he whispers into the elderly man's ear as shyness overtakes him.

"Goodbye, Jack my boy."

As he flies past Katherine he pauses just long enough to press his own kiss to her forehead. "I'll return it," he promises her breathlessly before the Wind wraps around him and sweeps him up the stairs and out the decorative hollow serving as a window.

There's no need to bid goodbye to Big Root, for the tree assures him it's always but a single thought away. _Distance is meaningless between star children._ Jack considers this as he gains height; thinks on it until Santoff Claussen is but a pale speck amidst the sprawl of deep green forest — then shouts in glee. Big Root has hinted at a new trick...

And he can't wait to learn it.

~o~

_**End notes:**__ I feel all _meh_ about this part. I can't wait for Christmas to be over ^^;; At least _now_ there is absolutely nothing keeping Jack away from the North Pole. Bwahaha! Although I'm thinking the next part isn't going to go the way you're thinking it might go. Cue Bwahaha the Return!_

the snow being unexpected: Kaylessa_ pointed out that snow in northern Europe at the end of December _shouldn't_ be unexpected =D And, yeah — it _looks_ like a booboo on my part. But this is actually the result of me taking so dratted long between posting parts, for if you go back you'll see that this massive snowfall? It's coming from a perfectly clear sky. Yup. Jack left his shadow behind. I think it's hanging out over Vermont, actually. Don't ask me _why_ it's in Vermont; there are some things in this world far too damaging to know. Now, Katherine _should_ have immediately thought, "Snow from nowhere? Jack must be here!" but instead the silly Goose Mother was thinking, "Gosh, Ombric somehow managed to make it snow; the old dear so hated disappointing North."_

_That's my story and I'm sticking to it..._

the four wizards:_ Wow! Lots of speculation there! Lets just say all four got named in reviews, but no review had all four of them together XD Although the mention of Pitch _really_ got me to thinking, because I never considered him a wizard, and yet he _is_ able to utilize Ombric's books to cast spells... Oooo, maybe I'll need to change that to five wizards... or not. The image in my mind of wizard!Pitch is scary._

_Beta by _Kaylessa_ :) whom henceforth shall have the title: Keeper of Continuity. It comes with a glittery crown. Unfortunately, the crown is made out of cardboard._

_Everyone needs to go look at the lovely picture done by _DarthCloudo_ for part 26!  
_cloudodoodles dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 45759704079 slash proportions-and-foreshortening-shall-forever-be-my

_Just, you know, put dots for dots and slashes for slashes and take out the spaces, then bask in the warm glow of eternal cuteness!_

_Following an excellent suggestion, a directory of all the drabbles and what not can now be found on my profile page ^o^ There, too, you will find the addies of all the lovely pieces of art _Kaylessa_ has done for _In The Silence_. If you've done art, I'd love to list it as well; please just let me know!_

_Ever so many grateful hugs to _Twilight Cardmistress, Smoochynose, xxDarkHuntress23xx, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, hiddenworldwalker, DragonflyonBreak, Lovepuppy316, Soshoryu, Breezyfeather, neoneco, Lythenia, Fumus000, DoomCabbit, whylime, Nike, Nique17, headlong-for-freedom, Sora Tayuya, Crystal Peak, Guest, Alaia Skyhawk, Avatar Aang, HerHiddenSecret, Bookworm Gal, I F T S, Magiccatprincess, Eternal She-Wolf, Anne Camp, Shyley3, blackkyu, RandomKrazyPerson, DragonsFlame117, Alana-kittychan, UVNight, Yue Hikari, Rahar Moonfire, hi, dan, bookworm, Mavan_ and _Draconic_ for their reviews. Thank you thank you thank you! Your reviews keep bringing me back to my keyboard whenever I get frustrated with misbehaving characters._

_A special shout out specifically to _RandomKrazyPerson_ for many bricks chucked my way. Has you a drabble you'd like? Let me know, I'll write it up if I can — and then I'll wrap it around these here bricks and toss it back your way ^_~_

_...and Mr. Qwerty has a few words to say..._

_**excerpt from the pages of Mr. Qwerty**_

Entire books could have been written about the rise of the Nightmare King and the fall of the Golden Age. Classes could have been formed, and lectures given to passionate, bright-eyed students eager to move past the mistakes of their elders. Museums could have been dedicated to the mighty engines of destruction that advance any war, and tourists could have come from Constellations far and near to gape and wonder at how perilously close civilization had come to complete annihilation.

But there are no museums to house the artifacts of the Nightmare King's war. There are no classes. No lectures. No students. There are no books detailing cunning strategies and heroic exploits — for there were none left to _write_ them. There are no ruling Constellations, there is no galaxy-spanning civilization, and there is no one left that particularly cares about the fall of General Kozmotis Pitchiner and the dark, unnatural birth of the abomination Pitch.

That Pitch was defeated by the courage of a single spectral boy is known by a handful. The story is engraved on the surface of a mystical gong hidden high in the Himalayas. That Pitch rose once more to threaten the children of a small, backwater planet is known by a village, a temple, a gathering of Guardians appointed by the Man in the Moon. The King of Nightmares, though, was driven away. He was not, however, _vanquished_ due to the intervention of a woman who once, long ago, had been the Golden General's daughter. Pitch was brought low and pushed back, forced to seek refuge in his place of power: the derelict ruins of the _Nightmare Galleon_ hidden deep within the protective, smothering folds of the planet's crust.

It is there he slowly regained strength, feeding off the tiny, feeble fears of the children of the nearby village of Tanglewood. It was in Tanglewood his Fearlings had first been defeated, driven _away_ from the brother and sister dreaming dreams of small joys and small sorrows, and it was to Tanglewood he returned, for Pitch had energy for little else. He'd been weakened to such an extent that only a sliver of his self could leave the _Galleon_, and it took the shape of a noxious black rat that scurried through shadows and could briefly withstand the glaring light of day.

Unfortunately, Tanglewood had _changed_ during his absence. While new, delightful fear ran through the village children, there was also a disturbing current of _joy_ Pitch failed to understand. There should have been no joy, no play, no _fun_ for people barely surviving in their harsh, untamed environment. The Nightmare King faced the hideous specter of starvation — and then he saw the _reason_ for his torment. Tanglewood was under the protection of a frost child.

It took him aback. Pitch was certain he'd destroyed every last misbegotten star-spawn in the universe — besides the eternal thorn in his side that was Nightlight. The sight of the frost child gleefully playing with the children of Tanglewood sent a frisson of terror running through the Nightmare King, a welcome sensation, for fear could always feed upon itself. After close observation, however, the King of Nightmares discovered his first assumption was _wrong_. The frost child was _young_. Achingly young and practically oozing distress, his only companions a stray, confused moonbeam and a breeze Pitch very much doubted was actually sentient.

It was an unlooked-for opportunity, and the rat that was the smallest sliver of Pitch salivated at the feast spread before him. He taunted the frost child, so young, so naive; told the child truths the boy could not fully comprehend. And when the boy nearly committed murder the Nightmare King devoured the frost child's anguish and basked in his gluttony — until the frost child disappeared from his senses.

Outraged, Pitch searched in every crevasse, every darkened corner and every shadowed _thought_ for traces of the frost child. He yearned, _hungered_ for the boy's delightful fear — and in the nightmare ramblings of a young girl's mind Pitch found his first clues.

He _knew_ this girl, knew her before he'd tricked the frost child into harming her. He _knew_ this girl, for his Fearlings had fed upon her before, _before_ the wretched Nightlight had chased the shadows away. He _knew_ this girl, as he had once known her brother... but her brother was missing. _Gone, gone,_ cried the young girl in her nightmare delirium. _Gone below the ice, an unfair trade. Her Jack was gone, taken by ice and winter and she _hates_ them. Winter was a cold-hearted killer, and she wants her Jack back._

_Jack Frost._ Pitch had the frost child's name, and he laughed his cruel, mocking laugh. With the name he was able to track down the boy asleep below the sheltering ice of the lake that served as his watery tomb. _Jack Frost,_ who dreamt distorted, queer dreams that responded eagerly to the Nightmare King's skill. _Jack Frost,_ full of enough fear and self-loathing that Pitch could feed off the boy for all the lifetimes of men to come — but he had found the boy too late.

_His daughter was there before him._

His daughter had her own interest in the frost child, and with her she brought the burning-bright sands of the only shooting star to ever fall and yet still _glow_. From Sanderson Mansnoozie the Nightmare King had no choice but to flee — but he was not defeated. He knew the moods of his daughter, and knew she would eventually tire of the boy. Pitch could wait. He'd had millenniums of practice in patience.

To amuse himself he confronted the Guardians once again, powerful from the fears he'd glutted himself upon. The fear he'd gathered, though, was fragile and melted like snowflakes each time he tried to wield it. The fear turned to _mirth_ and the Guardians _laughed_ at his defeat. Laughed as he retreated once more to his _Nightmare Galleon_, his Fearling army destroyed and worse yet, his daughter _annoyed_ as she did her best to flood his darksome tunnels with torrential rainfall.

Forced to the surface, he railed at the Moon. _It wasn't fair._

And the Man in the Moon agreed.

It _wasn't_ fair. It had never been fair. A balance had been tipped, and fear was bleeding out of the world. The Man in the Moon had seen it before. He'd seen the rise of the Golden Age through an infant's eyes, and he'd seen it fall. The stars themselves sang warnings: If fear was destroyed, the universe would go with it. The Moon offered the Nightmare King a treaty. A compromise. They might rule the night together.

The Nightmare King was not what he once was. With the Nightmare Men destroyed and most of the Fearlings set free to move on from the darkness that had bound them, Pitch was alone, his power all but gone. And with his power went the anger, the hate, the _malevolence_ that had eaten away at his mind like a cancer until all that was left was a man that had once been the embodiment of courage and duty, and had also once been the embodiment of an indulgent society's sins. But no more. He was but a shadow of himself. And the Man in the Moon gave him a new name, and a new duty.

He was Pitch Black, the Boogeyman.

As he tried to come to grips with his new purpose, his daughter returned to him and brought with her the frost child. _Jack Frost._ The boy that should have been his — but was _hers_ instead. And it gave the Nightmare King pause, for if the child belonged to his daughter... then the child _was_ his, as well. Only Pitch no longer felt like devouring Jack's fears, for without the Fearlings' presence the boy's fears were no longer sweet, and they no longer _satisfied_. Curious, for shadows thrive on mystery, he granted his daughter's request and led them to the starforge. Curious, he allowed the frost child to keep his ill-repaired trinket.

Curious, he watched the frost child return over the years to the ruins of Tanglewood. Watched as the boy wept, and watched as he surrendered painful memories to the unfaithful waters of the lake. Watched as humans returned to the valley — and _raged_ when they captured the boy with a spell that couldn't be broken by fear, only forgiveness.

The town of Burgess grew, and Pitch fed upon the fears of its citizens the same as Jack fed upon the happiness of its children. He fed often, and he fed well. Too well, for fear plagued the humans, fear that wasn't his. Their fear ran deep and burningly hot — and it was directed towards winter and a frost child they could not see but _hated_ all the same.

There was hatred in the town of Burgess, and the rat that was the merest sliver of his self scurried through shadows searching for help. His daughter, though concerned, could not come to his aid, caught as she was in her own battle against fire and destruction. In desperation he turned to the Guardians; tried to explain there was dark wizardry afoot, a spell set in motion against a frost child that had no _idea_ the evils men could sink to. He tried telling the fool of a wizard Ombric, hidden away within his wards and wishes past which no shadow dared pass. He even tried finding the infernal Nightlight, but the boy thought it was but a game and darted away each time Pitch drew near.

He tried, and tried, and _tried_ but no one listened. After all, they reasoned, the truths of a shadow would always be revealed as a lie.

_It's not fair_, he railed at the Moon.

It _wasn't_ fair, the Man in the Moon agreed as he, too, was ignored by the Guardians he'd set into place. And another bargain was struck, although it would take centuries to reach fruition.

Let the Boogeyman plot, and scheme. Let the Guardians get a taste of not being believed in. It was past time. This time around, there was a book that would record the battle. This time around — perhaps lessons would be learned. This time, there would be witnesses to the rise of the Nightmare King and the fall of the Guardian's presumptions.

~o~

_^_^ Written because a long, long time ago (a few months, at least!) _Kaylessa_ asked _how_ Pitch had learned Jack's name. I procrastinated in writing it, since at the time it looked like I'd have to insert it into an old part... But it fits here well enough lol!_

_And, as if you haven't already suffered enough... Here. Have a drabble written in second person, because Esse has lost her mind and feels you need to suffer with her._

~o~

You are a moonbeam, little different from your brethren. Sometimes you _are_ your brethren, and sometimes they are you, for the edges of your self are fuzzy. You hardly have a self at all. Your days are spent keeping up with the edge of night, and your duty is to chase away shadows that dare trouble children in their dreams. You do not enjoy your job, but neither do you begrudge it. In fact, you have little in the way of likes or dislikes. You are hardly _you_ lost within the multitude, with nary a self to be concerned with.

This changes when you're given a new mission by your Tsar. You and dozens more, _all_ of you are sent not to chase away shadows but to gently lure away fears from a boy hiding from the world underneath the frigid waters of a lake. You're not sure of this new duty yet you accept it all the same, for you were created but for one purpose, and that is to obey.

You leave the safety of the Moon and plummet to the planet below, through air and into water and there at the bottom of the lake mired in mud and _hurt hurt hurt_ is the boy you're meant to comfort. You join your brethren in their quiet questions of, _'Why why why,'_ that undulate against the current and tease the boy into lifting his head.

And this is the start of _you_. This is _your_ frost child, your very own Jack boy; he is yours and you cling to a lock of hair as silver as yourself. You cling — and you repurpose yourself. The other moonbeams _no longer brethren_ cry, _'Why why why,'_ and you answer with the glory of a truth that has given you your self.

_'Mine mine mine!'_

He is your Jack boy and you are his Snowflake moonbeam, and together you play as all children should. There is a sadness to your boy and you do your best to ease it, but for all your trying it remains. It is doubt, and it is loneliness, for while he is your Jack boy you remain a moonbeam, and a moonbeam is not a child. Your Jack boy needs a child, but your Tsar can no longer hear your pleas for you are much less now than a moonbeam and much _more_ the Snowflake of a frost child.

He is your Jack boy, and you gladly die for him. It is not such a sacrifice, for you had not known you had a life to give. Moonbeams cannot die — but Snowflakes apparently can, and your only regret is in leaving him. Your Jack boy's had too much of being alone.

Death is a lonely place, even though it's filled with people. People that see you, and smile, and offer the hoods of their cloaks for you to rest in. But their hoods aren't nearly as comfortable as the chilled folds of your Jack boy's cape. You cannot rest, and you cannot move on, for there's no place for a moonbeam in this realm or the next as moonbeams cannot die. Though Snowflakes, apparently, do.

Death would be lonelier if not for the stars overhead. Stars are here, as they are _there_ back where you long to be with your Jack boy. Stars are strange sorts that have no need to ask questions. But they're familiar and you know most of them by name, and even when they are _there_ you know they'll soon return here with news, and you wish them well as you've been taught to by the Tsar. You wish _everyone_ well.

You hope your Jack boy's well. But you think not. You think he might be missing you. You're certainly missing him.

And then one endless twilight, a new star flickers into life there in death and burns with a question contained within a name. {Snowflake?} it sings, and your attention is caught. {where could be poor lost Snowflake, moonbeam friend of the child of the lake?}

_'Here!'_ you cry, you dance, you tremble as the star's bright regard turns your way. _'I am here! Have you news of my Jack boy? Is he lonely? Does he play?'_

Oh, the laughter of a star is joy in its purest form. {a star child wishes impossible dreams, but he doesn't know what impossible means. for his dearest Snowflake he does yearn. moonbeam, will you now return?}

Yes, you will return to your Jack boy. You'll gladly give your death for your Jack boy. And you're here within a pendant of gold bound by a woven chain of grass, yet you're still there in twilight with the company of stars — and you realize that you're like them, the stars, both here and _there_ with little to differentiate the two. Not even your Jack boy, for he follows you willingly as you dream, or as you wake. Sometimes it's hard to tell, but it's of little matter as long as you have your frost child.

Sometimes you miss the freedom enjoyed by other moonbeams _no longer brethren_, caught as you are upon a chain encased in gold _always always always_ in the company of stars, but you will never give it up. You will fight to stay where you are, above your Jack boy's heart. _Always always always_ in his heart. And years and decades and centuries later, perched upon the velvet-draped balcony inside a darkened theater as your frost child watches a movie with awestruck delight...

...he asks you a question.

"Hey, Snowflake," your Jack boy grins, the palm of his hand chill and heavy against you. "Think you're my Jiminy Cricket?"

_'Jack boy!'_ you laugh with his laughter, and all the stars both here and there, and _there_ and _here_ laugh as well. _'Haven't we sat long enough? We should play, frost child. Let's play!'_

~o~

_What? You're still here? A drabble written in second person about Snowflake wasn't enough to send you screaming into the streets? (Granted, no one really needs an _excuse_ to go off running, screaming into the streets since it's such a larf...)_

_You don't get the play today. No you do not. You get this instead. Cue Bwahaha III — The Revenge._

~o~

Pitch is sitting on the back seat of a baby blue moped. Jack had called it a pillion, and while Pitch knows the far more common and far more _vulgar_ American term for the second seat of a motorcycle, he finds Jack's incredibly _proper_ language amusing to no end and so holds his tongue. He finds Jack's threat to freeze his arms solid if he dares put them around the boy for stability somewhat _less_ amusing. Nonetheless he sits, _a pillion_, on a moped traveling a somewhat less than stunning twelve miles an hour along a bike path running through downtown Burgess.

The bike path is well maintained, and every quarter mile a sign informs all and sundry that use of said bike path by motorized vehicles is strictly prohibited. He's pointed out each and every sign to Jack, with much tongue clicking and expressed worry over what kind of example the newest Guardian is setting for his believers.

He doesn't want to admit that he was impressed that the whelp was able to freeze over all four lanes of traffic running beside them _without noticing_. Pitch, of course, noticed. And laughed heartily as cars skidded along unseasonable black ice during their evening commute home. He expects there will be much to entertain him this evening, and to celebrate he whips out a grape flavored lollipop.

"Do explain again," he says around his lolly, "_why_ we're forced to utilize this contraption to convey ourselves to the school auditorium. I could be there in a moment traveling through shadow, never mind the fact that you can _fly_."

"As I _said_," Jack grates out from between gritted teeth, "we're _visible_ this evening. Special dispensation for the play. And Jamie pointed out that the parents _expect_ to see us arrive by — more conventional methods. Which means—"

"A modified '77 Puch Maxi? Oh, I think _not_." Pitch is _enjoying_ himself. He really, _really_ is. To celebrate he slurps at his lolly, striping his tongue purple. "We could have _walked_ to the auditorium. It would have been faster." He purposefully jogs the boy's elbow, forcing Frost to acknowledge the elderly woman, well into her ninth decade, swiftly overtaking them in her flag bestrewn powered wheelchair. "I thought a moped could reach speeds of nearly fifty kilometers per hour."

The boy in front of him hunches protectively over the handlebars before turning his head to glare over his shoulder. "Brindy has plenty of power! You weigh too much!"

"...Brindy?" There are several long, elongated seconds spent blinking at the incongruity — then Pitch laughs. He laughs loudly, snorting and chortling and nearly inhaling his lolly; he knows he's presenting a _terrible_ image to all the little children that might believe in the Boogeyman, but he can't help himself. He truly can't. "You named your moped Brindy?"

"Snarks the man that couldn't _wait_ to show off his newest litter of nightmare Affenpinschers when I picked him up." Blazing blue eyes are still trying to stare down the Nightmare King, but a hint of a smirk appears as the corners of Jack's lips pull up. "Cute little monsters, though. Surprised me; 'm not really sure what you were thinking, since they would've arrived _after_ the great doomsday that wasn't." Looking ahead once more — and narrowly missing a rollerblader coming from the opposite direction — he shrugs with a crackle of ice breaking free from the shoulders of his hoodie. "When did you move in to the condo, anyway?"

"A few months back." He's licked away his lolly, and in disappointment he begins chewing through the layers of paper that comprise the sucker stick. "You know how it is in this business. It's all about location. Besides, how could I resist taking up residence in the only naturist community in Burgess? Do you have any idea the _fear_ that runs through people as they pass by on the sidewalks? How _afraid_ they are that they might see something they shouldn't?"

"Like a Boogeyman _au naturel_?" Jack's definitely smirking, and Pitch doesn't mind for it's a step up from the leering he'd been subjected to from the Guardian of Memories when she'd stopped by for the final fitting of his costume. "You do realize invisible isn't the same as naked, don't you?"

"Po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes." Pitch sniffs, tossing away the sucker stick into a convenient bush and pulling another lolly from his pocket. This one has chocolate hidden inside its strawberry shell, and he spares a moment to idly wonder how many licks it might take to reach the center. "And the play will be _finished_ before we ever arrive. Can't your darling _Brindy_ go any faster? —One," he says after a hearty lick. "Two." He barely has time to pull the lolly from his mouth as the moped bounces over a buckle ridging the asphalt of the bike path.

"Three."

If asked under oath, Pitch will _swear_ he can hear Jack rolling his eyes in annoyance. It rather sounds like the clang-clang-clang of a rollercoaster's anti-rollback device. He sympathizes, for patience is a virtue — and he _so_ tries to stay away from _those_ — and he bites down hard on the lolly to reach the chewy chocolate center.

"If you're in such a hurry," Jack tells him, "you could always pedal."

"Far be it for me to usurp your prerogative." He eloquently places his hand over his heart, and smiles a smile full of sharp teeth coated in red-dyed sugar and dark brown chocolate. "You know," he leans down to whisper into the boy's ear, "I wasn't exaggerating about walking being faster. The Easter Mule is right behind us."

"Aw, man!"

"G'day mate!" Bunny hails them, casually strolling next to the straining moped. "Ratbag," he adds, nodding towards Pitch. "Sandy sent me to see what's keeping you." Long ears twitch, sensitive to the noise produced by the moped's combustion engine. "Have t' say, wasn't expecting _this_. Bit cozy for the two of you, innit?"

"Bunny..." Jack whines, hunched and iced over and very close to discovering _how_ to conveniently disappear into shadow. "Wrong accent and _totally_ wrong script. _This_ is why you were supposed to come to rehearsal."

"What, we're not doing _Crocodile Dundee_?" Bunny's positively crestfallen, and Pitch readies himself to laugh at the Pooka's disappointment. Readies himself — then bites his tongue at the rabbit's next statement. "Just a bit of a josh; looked like you could use a laugh. Nah, I'm all ready for my parts. Had to cut back Easter prep, but I figure the play will generate more than enough belief to make up for it."

"Goodie," Pitch says with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

"Yeah." Bunny's grin is ghastly, containing far more pointed teeth than Pitch's own. "Been practicing my howling. By the way..." His nose wriggles with amusement struggling to escape. "Nice helmets. Didn't think they came done up as glittery crimson ladybugs. Special order, that?"

Before Pitch can lash out and obliterate the smug rabbit — he's gone. Not because Bunny has run ahead, but because Jack's begun pedaling.

"Huh," the Boogeyman says to himself as they arrive at the school's parking lot at the head of a vortex of dust and debris. "I guess pedaling does make a difference."

Taking off his helmet, Jack flings it underneath a nearby Volkswagen van. "This was supposed to be _fun_. ._..And I thought the helmets were cute..._ Well, c'mon," the boy gestures towards the school. "The play must go on."

~o~

_Oh oh oh! _ JanDi_ had done fanart for this! Go look! Go look right now!  
jan-di dot deviantart dot com slash art slash Pitch-Puppies-361156026  
Pitch will destroy us all with cuteness. It's quite the wicked plan._

_Annnnd I'm sure you all need to know that while Esse was writing this, she had the theme song from _The Odd Couple_ running nonstop through her head. -_- I am forever more _ruined_. And while the theme is from the television series, both Jack and Pitch are insisting _they're_ Jack Lemmon since neither of them wants to be Walter Matthau; they've got the movie hopelessly mixed up with the series. Which then leads to a terrible, world-ending AU where Pitch and Jack remake _Grumpy Old Men_._

_And this makes Pitch happy happy happy, because at least the world _**is**_ ending. Esse is dead now. Thanks a lot, Pitch!_


	48. disobey

In The Silence

~48~

The compass fills his palm, ornate gold embossed with scrolling flourishes. The single hand points steadily towards the bold, black N and Jack appreciates the irony, that he must go north to find North. The earth below him is cruel and barren, and even the snow that should soften the harshness of the bleak landscape is _cold_ and impersonal. It's not _his_ ice smothering the ground, and he's glad there's a scarcity of villages around, for life spent upon the tundra must be terribly bleak.

He then leaves all land behind him, and still the compass urges him further north. The seas below are as leaden grey as the skies above and he hesitates, caught in a moment of vertigo between sea and sky as the Wind tumbles him about, suddenly aimless. There's a pull on his _self_, a demand to head south nearly as strong as his wish to continue north; it's a tug that stings as much as it compels and it's all he can do to stay in place against it.

It's _Thaddeus_. The man is wondering where he is, where he's gone; _what is he doing that's taking so long. Morning is over and the children are out playing and he has questions to ask concerning the night before..._ Thaddeus wants him back home — and it _annoys_ Jack. Angers him enough that it momentarily overpowers the _hurt_. He's had enough of being subject to Thaddeus' whims. Jack had been with the family for nearly a month — even if most of that time had been spent asleep — and even _now_ he's tracking down North _for_ them.

He's not ready to go back, back to restrictions that rankle and make absolutely no sense. He doesn't _want_ to go back, for it's been too long since he's traveled with the Wind high above the world with nary a care except where they should next touch down. He wants to play with children — _all_ his children, and not just the few that live in Burgess.

_He will not go back,_ but the will opposing his own is strong and arrogant. It's an adult's will, used to getting its own way, and Jack's will is that of a frost child used to being swayed by the merest hint of a breeze or whisper of a laugh. He refuses to go back... but the _pull_ is tearing at something inside his chest and the seething, heaving surface of the ocean is closer than it was moments ago.

He _giggles_ at the pain; dizzy and half-blinded his toes brush froth and attempt to freeze the slate-grey swell underfoot, but the ocean is _vast_ beyond imagining and his power is no match against its restlessness. His giggle is a _sob_ and nearly hysterical as he clutches hard at his staff as the Wind plucks at his coat sleeves and the fringe of his scarf in worried confusion.

"He's mad," Jack gasps, water soaking the tattered hems of his new trousers as he struggles against Thaddeus' crazed _want_. "Would he rather see me at the bottom of the ocean than disobeying? Can't he realize if I haven't returned yet I don't _mean_ to? Can't he let _anything_ go? He wished me to be free, but he never truly released his hold." With a cry nearer to a wail, he grasps the pendant hanging over his heart. "_Snowflake!_ What do I do? _What do I do?!_"

_'Jack boy.'_ The moonbeam's voice is a mix of tender concern and stupefying rage, and the _force_ of it brings Jack to his knees, salt water lapping at his thighs and soaking through the thick corduroy of his coat to freeze harsh and gritty against his skin. _'There's always the possibility of refusing. We've never refused him before. Shall we use this possibility? Dare we take it now?'_

"Yesss!" he hisses, hurt and anger and _light_ streaming from him in waves that push the hungrily clutching ocean _back_. The air surrounding him is silver, and the Wind — sparkling from within — picks him up with a gentleness he's grateful for, for he's suddenly _tired_ and ready to sleep. He's tired, and his lids want to fall over dry, aching eyes, but the _pull_ from Thaddeus is _gone_ and the Wind shrieks his victory for him as he cradles Snowflake in one hand and the compass in the other. "...yes," he says again upon his next breath, a whisper of affirmation. "I want to go north. I need to find North...

"I don't want to sleep, Snowflake. Not yet."

_'Not yet,'_ Snowflake agrees, warm and glowing and sounding nearly as tired as Jack feels. _'First we've a thief to catch.'_

"Yeah."

Below Jack the ocean is grey tinged with blue, and large chunks of brilliantly white ice float upon it, the same as the leaden pall of the sky breaks against sunlight and brilliantly white clouds float against a vault of endless azure. Then the ocean gives way to ice entirely; a shore of ice, a _continent_ of ice — and while it is not _his_, this ice isn't foreboding, nor is it cruel, for a whimsically sly secret lurks in its depths. Several secrets, the first of which brings a wide, relieved smile to Jack's face.

_This ice has known the touch of frost children._

The ice has been shepherded. Watched and shaped and urged back from warmer climes. The ice had once been sung to, played with, given _life_ in the forms of bears and seals and... something else. Something _different_ that Jack has no name for — and yet he feels a responsibility towards, as he does his children. Something hidden, sheltered by ice... _is his_. Some _things_ living, and learning, and _laughing_ here amidst mountains of aged, crumbled ice as far north as one could fly — and they are _his_. He has no doubt.

_They call to him. And there is no pain in their beseeching, only yearning._

The second secret is a _town_ clinging to jagged crags and burrowing deeply into the frozen bones of ice-mountains. It's a town of majestic, snow-capped structures, and it's dominated by a building large as a cathedral, domed as St. Basil's — though displaying far more red. It's a _town_ where none should be, bustling with motion, alive with...

"...life."

There's life at the North Pole's mysterious heart; massive and thickly-furred _life_ lumbering along catwalks that shouldn't hold such weight. Life is carving great blocks of ice from the sides of mountains, and strolling from one building to the next carrying heavy boxes, and _playing_ with hard-packed balls made more of ice than of snow. Life is playing, and running, and roaring into the brisk rush of the Wind.

There are _children_ and they're _his_ no matter how large, or furry, or frightful. _They're his children!_ and Jack leaps from his perch upon the Wind's broad shoulder to the town below, alighting in front of two gigantic wooden doors with his staff casually held behind his back. The doors are guarded by one of the beings, its thick fur ruffled more by surprise than the freshening breeze; its hands tighten around the wickedly pointed sword it's wielding as it brings the weapon to bear...

_'It's a Yeti, Jack boy,'_ Snowflake warns. _'Be careful.'_

...but Jack _can't_ be careful. Not here. Not now, when he's so very tired and so very pleased. Not with one of _his _children in front of him trembling in shock, and its deep, dark eyes so very wide in confusion and — welcome. Smiling with a joy strong enough to spread his shadow from horizon to horizon, Jack flings his arms wide as the creature — the _Yeti_ — his _child_ rushes forward with a bone-rattling bellow...

And embraces him in a hug he's spent his entire life missing. It's a hug that's warm, and soft, and ever-so safe; it shuts out all the various cares and worries of the world around him. It's a hug with a heartbeat steady enough for Jack to fall asleep to. And so he does, with a sigh that spreads graceful swirls of frost across the closed, wooden doors.

Jack sleeps... and dreams of toys.

~o~

_**End notes:**__ Urm, long time no see! ^^;; And I really, really want to reassure everyone that I absolutely haven't given up on _Silence_. Nope. Not going to happen. But yeah, this is a short part. And the next few are short, and you're prolly wondering what the hold-up is..._

_My dad went and had himself a heart attack. He's recovering now, but he's _with_ me, and my life is all sorts of interrupted. Instead of concentrating on Jack Frost my mind is instead preoccupied with taking care of my dad. I'm not looking for sympathy, because things like this happen to all of us, right? I just wanted to tell you all what the extended wait between parts was this time ^_^_

_Beta kindly provided by _Kaylessa_!_

_Many, many kowtows and thanks to _Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, HerHiddenSecret, Alaia Skyhawk, Bookworm Gal, Nike, Crystal Peak, Alana-kittychan, blackkyu, Hannah, feathered moon wings, Soshoryu, savedbygrace94, Dragowolf, RandomKrazyPerson, Anne Camp, Fumus000, bookworm, KyrianaeNarii, Sora Tayuya, random bug, Sakura Taichou, Meowse, ForeverWillEnd, Rahar Moonfire, UVNight, Oluhasuu, Gemma Rose, Rubes99, Luthengrad, Beloved Daughter, May Eve, zephyr hb_ and _Effugere_ for their reviews. Some of you had questions, and I'll do my best to PM answers in the next few days, although you might have forgotten by now what you asked lol!_

_I'm quite humbled as well by those of you who — through super-human effort — managed to read the 47 parts of _Silence_ in one go. Wow!_

_~And, to put your minds somewhat at ease, the next (short) part is done, except for drabbles, so do expect it up in three to four days ^_~ That's more reasonable, isn't it?_

_~~~And, because _Effugere_ once again reminded me of the mystery that is _Jack takes Sophie home_... =D Yeah, it's a good theory that Jack can interact with sleeping children. Or that Sophie was actually Jack's first believer. =^o,o^= But where's the fun in _that_? Because _no one_ asked for it, Esse proudly presents (duh duh duh!) Take Two!_

~o~

Bunny: "Ah, poor little ankle biter. Look at her, all tuckered out." _::bounces dead-to-the-world Sophie, eliciting a tiny spit-bubble and a giggle from the sleeping girl::_

Jack: "Eww..." o.o _::sighs, then bravely rallies to move the plot forward::_ "How about I take her home?"

Bunny: "...Uh. Yeah. _Right._ You and what army? And _don't_—" _::points at Baby Tooth and other mini-Tooths hiding behind his googies::_ "—plan on _them_ helping you. Camera caught them during the first take."

Tooth: _::giggles, and flutters closer to give Sophie a peck on the cheek::_ "I love her! And her little fake fairy wings! Not as fond of the wailing and feather-pulling and potty-breaks... But really, Bunny, I don't see why Jack _can't_ take the ankle biter home."

Bunny: _::splutters in disbelief::_ "You — you don't see why? I'll tell ya why! As soon as Jack tries to take her from me, she'll _fall_ because _she doesn't believe in him_! That's why!"

North: ::_splutters past mouthful of yummy chocolate egg he'd been scarfing on the sly_:: "What does belief matter? Sophie is ankle biter!"

Bunny: "Look, I don't want to see the ankle biter get hurt, and—" _::blink blink blinks as Jack snags sleeping-Sophie™ out of his arms — and carries her around the Warren without any problem::_ "—how are you doing that?"

Jack: _::sighs::_ "She's an _ankle biter_, Bunny. The only ones I have trouble interacting with are _human_ children."

Bunny: ::_soundless sound of jaw flapping open-and-closed in disbelief::_ "W-w-what? But an ankle biter _is_ a kid!"

North: "Ho ho ho!" _::slaps thigh then uses fist to wipe away chocolate from the corners of his mouth::_ "Silly misunderstanding, is all! Bunny, you are thinking _Sophie_ is little girl!"

Bunny: D: _::wails::_ "But she **is** a little girl!"

Tooth: _::takes her fingers out of Bunny's mouth, done admiring his teeth::_ "Oh, sweetie! You had it right the first time. Sophie is an ankle biter. Fairy changelings switched with human children at birth...?"

Jack: _::rolls his eyes::_

Tooth: "...No one ever explained it to you?"

Bunny: "No! No no no! Absolutely not! Ankle biter is Aussie slang for a child! Not — not a changeling!"

Jack: "Then how can I be holding her?" _::smirks, and drifts a few feet higher in the air::_ "Right. I'm off, then. Be back soon, hold down the fort, yadda yadda whatever."

North: _::throws comforting, chocolate-smeared arm over Bunny's shoulders::_ "Is okay. We are all having faults; misunderstanding soon will be bridge over the water, yes?" _::smiles in superior, fatherly way::_ "Now to tell you true meaning of googies!"

~o~

RandomKrazyPerson:_ I'm still thinking on your request. ^_^ And you're at the top of my "Must PM NOW!" list._

_re: Art commissions Esse has requested: o.o I've written to several people, but, uh, haven't heard back in a while. And I'm much too scared I went overboard and offended you, and I'm much too cowardly to e-mail again and risk pestering you ^^;; If you're still interested in/working on art — please let me know? I've got monies I'm happy to give you!_

_If you offered art, and haven't heard from Esse, it means your PM came after my poppy's heart attack, and I'll be writing to you soon! Because art makes me happy. And I've got monies I'm happy to give you!_

_Finally... Esse started writing _Silence_ because she was in a _very_ dark place. Writing made her feel better. This last month hasn't been fun... And Esse would like to share with you this morbid little AU, _what-if_ scene that takes certain truths within the _Silence_ universe — and presents them in a different light entirely. Mea Culpa — and no refunds bwahaha!_

~o~

Antarctica is blinding white and biting cold punctuated by the long, endless wail of a once-green land forever suffocating under the heavy rule of ice. Antarctica is also a playground, home to the offspring of penguins and seals and human scientists living in various stations along the continent. Jack takes the time to play with them all, these children of ice. They are his subjects, and he loves them as winter has always loved its children.

He watches over them. Protects them. And sometimes he takes them. It is the way of life in Antarctica, where it is either always bright, or always dark, but _always always_ very cold.

Jack stands near the edge of a jagged, frozen cliff. He stands across from the _intruder, interloper_ Boogieman. And he pretends to listen to arguments that have no bearing; listens to twisted reasoning — because it's different. No one's ever tried _convincing_ him in such a way. _Courted_ him in such a manner.

Pitch hints he knows what it's like to be alone; offers belief as if offering taffy to a child standing at the threshold of the Nightmare King's doorway. Pitch wants an alliance. An ally. _A scapegoat._ He raises a dark arm to the testament of Jack's power and Dreamsand's tainting; gives a leer that implies he's already assured of victory. "Look what we can do!" he says proudly; so _proud_ of knife-edged, shadow-smirched ice. "What goes together better than cold and dark?"

And Jack laughs. Laughs as brightly and as bitingly as his kingdom around them. Laughs as he walks forward; walks without touching the ground, not really, for he only — just barely — touches upon the world at all. Laughs as he reaches out and ever-so-gently pats the Boogieman's ashen cheek.

"Dark? You think you're _dark_?" Jack's voice is a piercing as pins, and against his _will_ Pitch shudders and steps back, steps closer to the edge overlooking the abyss. "You're _fear_, nothing more. Feeble, fragile fear that has no choice but to cling to Life for sustenance. Pitch _Black_; so arrogant with so little reason."

The Boogieman gathers courage to him as he would gather his Nightmares; cloaks himself in its protective folds and glares at Jack from behind its shielding presence. "What do _you_ know about it, boy?" he snarls, and in his hands a scythe forms slender and deadly. "Forgotten child that paints in frost, so insignificant that you're not even capable of leaving a footprint! I'll teach you to fear darkness!"

Jack smirks as the scythe falls, a beautiful, _awful_ smile filled with knowledge that leaves Pitch shaking as he jerks the blade free from the shoulder it was lodged in.

Jack smirks as he inspects the damage, thin fingers tugging at the rent in the fabric of his hoodie. The rent through skin. Through muscle. The rough nick in the bone that slices open the pad of his fingertip as he inspects the cut.

Jack smirks as light fills the wound, healing the damage with no trace except the torn jacket. "Man, I _liked_ this hoodie," he complains, lowering his hand as he moves forward; a step, a glide, a wavering between here and _there_ and here. "And has anyone ever told you it's _cheating_ to win an argument by manslaughter?"

He shreds through Pitch's coat of courage; stands next to the man chest to chest, his head tilted up to meet the other's wide-eyed gaze. "No matter," he says, sweetly as a snowflake drifting on an errant breeze. "You had your chance; your chance to _make_ me fear darkness. Guess it's my turn, now."

And the Boogieman _shrieks_. Screams until his voice fails him as he stares down into crystal eyes; down down down past laughter and fun and joy to the infinite _void_ beyond. A void that needed _nothing_. No life. No light. _Nothing._ Nothing at all. All — was nothing.

The truth lurking in the depths of Jack's bottomless gaze: Existence... is meaningless.

_All would return to void._

Huddled within his robe of shadow, Pitch weeps. Weeps, and fears, and trembles beneath the too-tender hand resting on his shoulder.

"Yeah," Jack tells him, as a man would tell their good friend a secret of little import. "Everyone fixates on the happy-go-lucky trickster. The poor, dumb kid without any friends. The frost child, son of a star. Pretty funny, actually. They _never_ stop to think of who my _other_ parent is. Suppose they're lucky that I'm such an easy going guy, huh?"

Pitch had thought he'd known darkness. He was the Boogieman, master of fear. But in Antarctica, too bright and too cold and too _indulgent_ of the small, flickering lives flaring and fading across its surface — _he learns_. Fear and darkness are two different things.

Pitch is only the master of _fear_.

Jack is still smiling, benignly, _lovingly_ at the man sprawled at his feet. "So why don't you go back to your little lair and forget this whole "Destroy the Guardians!" plot, okay? Because you're beginning to _annoy_ me. And _trust_ me... You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

Pitch gladly accepts defeat; rushes towards the nearest shadow and _escapes_ the smiling, laughing, _empty_ boy. Releases the mini fairies and scatters Dreamsand to the winds of the world until black fades into gold and children dream happily in their safe, warm beds. Then he curls into a ball, and rocks. And _tries tries tries_ to forget being the sole focus for a single, solitary moment—

—of entropy.

Pitch is only the master of _fear_.

Jack Frost is son to the Void. And it would take _so very little_ for him to follow in his Father's footsteps. For him — darkness is _home_.


	49. lord

In The Silence

~49~

He dreams of toys although they do not look like anything he's ever seen a child play with. There are miniature men of patterned metal that move in jerky, halting steps; that spark and smoke and chirp like startled birds as they go about their incomprehensible business. There are tiny, flattened boxes painted in vibrant, eye-searing colors resting upon even smaller wheels that race about a track of hard, black material; two crash together and they bounce along a smoothly polished floor unharmed. Life-like, blushing dolls with ebony hair caught up in braids blink their china-blue eyes and call out for their mothers, and children fall into sand-sprinkled sleep clutching stuffed animals that give off a soft, comforting glow that keeps the encroaching shadows at bay.

Jack has Aster Bunny, and he cuddles the floppy ragdoll close. He's dreaming — but not the dreams of a frost child. Neither are they the dreams of a moonbeam. They are, however, the dreams of a child. Wonderful dreams. Or perhaps it's just that they're full of wonder. Jack doesn't know; he only watches them in bemusement, an outsider observing. The strange, intriguing toys are not _his_ dream, and the child dreaming of them belongs to someone else.

The child is a fetching, winsome thing carefully guarded and cherished by an adult — and the child and the adult are one in the same. Jack considers this fact, caught up in dreams that are not his own; considers this child who is no child, but in all the ways that matter _is_. Yet is not his. Strange blocks lock together to form villages with towers that reach for the sky, and while he'd like to play with this child _that isn't his and is not a child at all_ he's not sure of proprieties, and so he wakes instead.

He wakes to pliant softness below and warm-furred bodies above. Chilled noses are pressed to the side of his neck, the crook of his elbow, the arch of his foot — and he blinks as he reaches out hesitant hands only to encounter additional bundles of tightly curled fluff. He stares drowsily at the carved, wooden rafters overhead, and slowly smiles as he pets the silken backs and shoulders and tangled topknots surrounding him.

"Children," he murmurs, and ears twitch beneath his fingers; the nose against his neck snuffles and shifts to under his jaw. "What dream is this, Snowflake? First toys, and now _children_; I must still be dreaming... But if I am, oh! I _want_ this. At least once. And then I'll never let them go. Is it possible, Snowflake? Can we make it true?"

His questions wake up the moonbeam, and as he waits for an answer — waits in a pile of trusting, sprawled, sweetly sleeping children — he remembers _why_ he and his friend are so tired. Together, they'd defied Thaddeus. Together, they'd forced an impossibility into _fact_ that had freed them to come... Come here. Here where they'd fallen into friendly, waiting arms, drained from the magic of pushing reality onto a different, _better_ path. Here, where the compass had led to north, and North, and to something _so much_ better.

_'Yetis.'_ Gold glows through the fine material of his shirt and Jack wonders where his coat might have gone whilst leaving Aster Bunny behind, snug between his chest and the flung arm of— _'And Yeti children. ...This _must_ be a dream, Jack boy, for Yetis defend their children fiercely. They'd never leave a stranger unsupervised with them, and yet...'_

"Here we are." A child with fur as pale as snow at twilight grumbles irritably and stretches; sinewy muscles attached to dense bones are deceptively heavy, and there are yellow ribbons embroidered with Arctic poppies tied into delicate bows in her juvenile beard. She rubs her cheek against Jack's hip, leaving behind a scattering of fine, white hairs on his linsey-woolsey trousers as she falls back to sleep. "It's not a dream, is it?" he asks, as something _moves_ across the room; something large, and imposing, and unbelievably _furry_ is coming towards them. _On tiptoes._ And Jack assumes it's so no unnecessarily loud footsteps disturb the slumber of the children.

_'It's a Yeti.'_ There's a note of worry in Snowflake's voice, a hint of wariness — and Jack doesn't understand, for his own instincts insist that he's safe; as safe as he's ever been in his room of golden Dreamsand; _safer_ by far than his place amongst Thaddeus' family. He's safe, surrounded by children _that are his_, and _secure_ in his welcome here at the northernmost point of the world. He doesn't understand Snowflake's fretting; he doesn't want to listen to Snowflake's silent warning. _'I never thought to teach you the language of Yetis; it's terribly complicated; I've only learned a few words, myself—'_

The Yeti comes to a stop by the side of the jumbled pile of pillows and Yeti children and curious, thoughtful frost child. And it — **he** — speaks a rough, garbled tongue; the words are meaningless noises punctuated by mashed-together consonants and sharp snarls, and yet... Jack understands. Beneath the Yeti's guttural language Jack hears his voice clearly. It's as plain as the murmur of moonbeams or the plaintive complaints of the Wind. It's as familiar as English, or _Nederlands_, or Minnow...

"Did you sleep well?" the Yeti asks, bending forward to smooth Jack's hair back with a calloused fingertip nearly as big as his head. "You worried us, collapsing as you did."

"I slept wonder...ful..ly," Jack finally replies, tasting the words upon his tongue and pondering their truthfulness. He is not sure if _wonderfully_ is quite accurate — though there _was_ wonder; the dreams that weren't his own had been _overflowing_ with it. His _waking_, though... That truly had been wonderful, a long-held secret wish of his heart finally granted. "It was just — difficult, getting here. I... I'm Jack," he introduces himself, untangling a hand from the long, clinging hairs of one of the children's topknots. "Jack Frost."

"Jack, frost lord." With surprising gentleness the Yeti's hand engulfs his own but instead of shaking it, the Yeti merely holds his hand as though it was something unspeakably fragile and precious. "I am Yaloo, leader of all Yetis; this is my den, and these ragamuffins surrounding you," eloquent, shaggy eyebrows rise in mild humor, "are my nieces and nephews. Who were _told_ to leave you to your rest. Ah, well; the young do tend to interpret orders to their satisfaction, and they _were_ so excited by your arrival..."

"They're no trouble, Yaloo. In fact," he turns his head to brush his nose across the small, furred face pressed against his neck, "I wouldn't mind sleeping _every_ night, if it meant waking up like this." With a quick puff of air he blows loose hair away from his mouth and watches as the milky-white strands dance along unseen currents to the far corners of the room. "But I'm no lord; I'm just Jack."

Yaloo doesn't let go of his hand, only holds on with a firmer — although no tighter — grip, and shakes his head in denial. "You're a frost child; we are your people, and you are our lord." The Yeti's dark eyes are liquid and brilliant, as joy rises through deep wells of sorrow. "We thought all the frost children lost to us, called far beyond our reach. We thought — _believed_ all the frost children were _lost_. Forever. And we'd given up hope." A tear falls from Yaloo's brimming eyes to be swiftly lost in his long mustaches, but his hand remains as light and reassuring as winter's first snowfall around Jack's own. "Forgive us?"

Jack giggles and the warm, furry bodies surrounding him wriggle to new positions as pale pink noses wrinkle and sharply pointed teeth are bared in groggy yawns. "Nothing to forgive — unless you keep calling me lord. 'M not denying I'm a frost child, and I'm sure all of you Yetis are amazing..." He can feel his honest smile attempt to twist wryly and rather than fighting it he allows the grin to break through, along with a shrug that startles a grumble from the child currently sharing possession of Aster Bunny. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm Snowflake moonbeam's Jack boy. I'm _his_; do you see? And I've been his Jack boy for a really long time, so you'll need to find some _other_ Jack to be your frost lord. —At least, I _think_ that's the way it works."

Snowflake's love wraps around him warmer than the pudgy bodies snuggled up against his own, and Snowflake's smug agreement makes it possible for Jack to meet the disappointment marking Yaloo's face with a single, shimmering snowflake drenched in magic. Against such a potent wish for well-being there is no defense, and Jack beams as the Yeti leader blinks in momentary confusion before chuckling, accepting — for now — Jack's reasoning.

"As you will, Jack. We will accept you are a moonbeam's boy. But as you are his, so we are _yours_. Denying it doesn't make it any less true." Somewhat regretfully Yaloo releases Jack's hand before stepping away from the pillowed nest. Graceful despite — or perhaps _because_ — of his size, the Yeti leader bows as his arm sweeps out to the side. "You are welcome here, Jack. Most welcome! Would you like a tour of our town?"

Oh, he would. He very much would. _North_ is to be found somewhere in this strange Yeti settlement, if the compass hasn't steered him wrong. He'll be so very glad to _finish_ his business with the troublesome, sneaky man. And Jack wants to know more about the Yetis; _his Yetis_ that satisfy an aching need he'd never before been able to put name to. _His Yetis_ the same way _he's_ Snowflake's Jack boy.

The smile pulling his lips in an upward curve is large enough to hurt — but Jack doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all. And he can't _wait_ to explore the Yeti village...

...as soon as he figures out how to escape the affectionate clutches of the napping Yeti children.

~o~

_**End notes:**__ I don't know if there's anything cuter than Jack in the middle of a pile of Yeti children. Really. I mean, picture puppies. Then kittens. Then Yeti-kids! See? Unbelievably cute! Hopefully this part cleared up a bit of confusion, as to why Jack would consider the Yetis his children =D If not, the next part does a _little_ bit more explaining._

_Who is Yaloo? In the books, he _is_ the leader of the Yetis. Expect Tashi to appear in the next part. And what about Phil? ...Yeah. Phil's not going to be around for some time. Feel free to speculate — especially _why_ he pounded his fist at Jack in the movie, while here all the Yetis _wuvvles_ Jack to pieces. Okay, not pieces _literally_. Bleh!_

_Three cheers for _Kaylessa_! Whom Esse wuvvles to pieces! Again, not literally!_

_Three cheers as well to all of you amazing reviewers! Huggles and _not into pieces_ wuvvles to _FyreFlyte, Beloved Daughter, PuppetMaster55, whylime, lurkerlaine, savedbygrace94, Muggin Nix, Sora Moto, catgrl106, Effugere, Hunter-Re, Twilight Cardmistress, May Eve, Magyk Knight, jboat, Anne Camp, RandomKrazyPerson, Alana-kittychan, Fumus000, DragonflyonBreak, draconicflyer, Dragowolf, Bookworm Gal, Sora Tayuya, Crystal Peak, freedomtoaster, evilballoon, Imstarfire, Rubes99, Hannah, DragonsFlame117, hi, bookworm_ and _ForeverWillEnd_!_

_I think I got most everybody PMd ^^;; Except for those I couldn't... So..._

AliceUndergroundWorks:_ I sent a PM, but I don't know if you've seen it. FFnet ate the link you sent me ^^;; Please resend, and I'll go look right away!_

jboat:_ Aww! Thank you! -huggles- I hope you like this part as well ^_^_

Alana-kittychan:_ I'm so glad you liked! Right now, my dad's biggest dietary restriction is low sodium. But then, he's _always_ eaten bananas =D_

Hannah:_ I'm so glad you're still reading! And if the last part made you 'Aww' then this part should have _drowned_ everyone in warm fuzzies lol!_

hi:_ It's great to hear from you, and to know you're still reading! HuggleGlomps!_

_Now, _Jan-Di_ sent me an incredibly cute picture — and hopefully she doesn't mind that I put it up to share ^^;; You can find it at:  
_calicodragon dot com slash pitch-goldfish dot jpg_  
~And... it got me to thinking about a certain little AU _way_ back in part 18 that I ended up naming Grampa!Pitch. Remember how Pitch wanted to give Jack a pony, but the other Guardians wouldn't let him have it? Yeah... Pitch is back for revenge, hahaha!_

~o~

In Burgess; Jack and Sandy confront Pitch

Pitch: ::_stands up from his smack-down, shakes dust from his robe and tsk tsks under his breath::_ "Okay, easy. You can't blame me for trying, Sandy."

Jack: "Sure he can!" _::grins and hops off the roof of the building. points a finger accusingly at Pitch and raises his voice into a creaky squeal::_ "Do... or do not. There is no try. Hmmm?"

Sandy: "..." _::massive eye roll, and an elbow to Jack's... thigh, the highest his elbow will reach::_ "... ... ..." _::various images form in the Dreamsand above his head. most involve kittens::_

Pitch: "...Really? And they'll chase the ribbon all the way up the side of the—" _::cuts himself off, shakes his head hard enough to scatter nightmare sand, and tries to get back to his soliloquy::_ "You don't know what it's like to be weak and hated—"

Jack: "Sure I do! Easter of '68 — _so_ not a fun time." _::pouts, and uses the crook of his staff to scratch an itch at the base of his back::_ "Oh yeah, that's the spot... I mean..." _::mocking grin turns to one of embarrassment::_ "Why are you pestering Tooth? Because Bunny? Crushing Bunny we could get behind."

Sandy: _::nods enthusiastically, and Dreamsand shows kittens happily biting fluffy bunny bottoms::_

Pitch: "Really?" _::taps his chin — dramatically!::_ "Huh. Imagine that. Okay, then. Sanderson, it was stupid of me to mess with your dreams." _::smiles benignly and claps his hands enthusiastically::_ "So I'll tell you what..." _::lowers his voice — dramatically! and turns his head just so, letting the light of the Moon overhead reflect off his narrowed, threatening eyes — dramatically!::_ "You can have 'em back, and I'll take Jack to the carnival."

_::Nightmares come charging in from all directions — and turn into piles of inert nightmare sand::_

Jack: "Yay! The carnival!" _::does happy little dance on the tips of his blue-tinged toes::_

Pitch: "That's right, the carnival!"

Jack: _::glomps onto Pitch's left arm::_ "I wanna go on the Ferris wheel, and the roller coaster, and eat cotton candy and candy apples and oh oh oh! Funnel cake!"

Sandy: _::stares in stunned shock at roughly 580 metric tons of useless sand::_ "..." _::Dreamsand swirls but is unable to convey his precise feelings — which run along the lines of, _"I'm not cleaning this up!"_::_

Jack: "And we'll toss plastic balls into goldfish bowls and dimes into teacups — and you'll win me one of those great big gigantic stuffed animals. Right Pitch? To make up for the pony those mean ol' Guardians wouldn't let me have!"

Pitch: _::slightly dazed, and slightly nauseated at the thought of all that junk food; also slightly alarmed at the _thought_ of _Jack_ eating all that junk food — then decides he'll start destroying Bunny by dropping Jack off with him _after_ the carnival::_ "Yes, yes, of course. What ever you want, my dear boy. Now..." _::pauses when he feels a tug on the right sleeve of his robe::_ "What? Sandy?"

Sandy: ::_reaches out his hand; opens and shuts it rapidly in a universally understood grabby gesture::_ "..." _::Dreamsand swirls into the shape of a hotdog, a balloon animal, and a tilt-a-whirl::_

Pitch: "Oh! For the love of—"

Jack: _::stops his recitation of increasingly bizarre fair concoctions::_ "Hey; you _really_ don't want to get on his bad side."

Pitch: _::considers::_ "I concede your point. Fine then: come along." _::lets Sandy grab his right hand, and with Jack still hanging from his left arm they walk down the street, eventually turning at the first intersection::_

Jack: _::voice fading into the distance::_ "And we can get our faces painted with stars and flowers, and an artist can do our caricatures, and we can cut to the front of all the lines because Sandy can just put them all to sleep...::

_::sleigh crashes into now deserted street::_

North: _::blinking sleepily at towering mountains of black sand::_ "Where did everybody go?"

~o~

_XD Oh Pitch you big meanie, taking Jack and Sandy to the carnival! Does your wickedness know no bounds?_

_And so you my dearest readers do not go into sugar shock, Grumpy!Jack appeared (and was he grumpy!) and demanded I get on with his story. ^^;; Yeah, I'm not going to be the one to tell Grumpy!Jack no..._

~o~

She encountered him in a tiny village nestled in the foothills of Sagarmāthā. She'd been resting beside a low, mud wall with her mini-selves, gathering strength for her flight to the Lamadary. She'd never before been called there — but a child had lost a tooth. A most extraordinary child, and it was her duty to collect that tooth and insure no harm befell it or the precious memories locked within.

She'd been preparing to go, stretching out her wings to ease cramping muscles, when he descended upon a bitter wind, snowflakes in his wake and frost spreading in great spirals where his feet lightly touched the ground. His presence startled her, and several of her mini-selves took flight. Merely as precaution — for while the pale youth was not known for being kind, neither was he known to be purposefully cruel.

"Winter," Toothiana acknowledged him, a greeting echoed by six others.

"Your Highness." He bowed over his staff, stiffly formal, then straightened — and it was then Toothiana observed his _weariness_, for he stumbled as he stood and would have fallen had she not steadied him with a hand beneath his elbow. "And my thanks," he added wryly, his white brows arched in curiosity at her closeness. Wind wrapped around him and slid him back, but his hand, slim and cool, remained upon her own. "Might we do away with formalities? I hope that one day we might be friends, and to my friends I've always been Jack."

"Toothiana." She was not sure what to do with the palm pressed so familiarly against her own, and her mini-selves inspected the clasp curiously, fluttering over and under to view the rare phenomena from all angles. The touch, despite her expectations, was not unpleasant; it tingled along her fingers as a handful of snow might and she wondered if the sensation was precursor to numbness. "Might I ask," she said, her voice soft with confusion, "what brings you here?"

"Not here." With surprising gentleness he released her hand, wrapping his own securely about his staff. "Or — not here in particular. I came to see you. And I imagine my reason coincides with your own: A Guardian child has lost her last baby tooth, and you are on your way to fetch it."

"I fail to see what business it is of yours, Winter." She cradled her hands, one within the other, but warmth was slow to return to them. Pressing them to the down of her breast helped, but her very soul was chilled by the youth's words. "What interest do you have in children? Or is it memories you're after?"

He shook his head and leaned into the support of his staff. "You would be surprised... I've fought the Shadow Men," he told her, and she found it hard to hold his frozen gaze. "Driven off Fearlings, and protected those that they would prey upon. —Others have taken up the task as well; surely you've noticed the lessoning of the children's nightmares. All thanks to the Guardians." There was an odd bitterness to his matter-of-fact tone, and the fingers curled along the length of his staff trembled. "Pitch, though, is not without resources of his own."

"I know this." A mini-self perched on her shoulder as the others flocked behind her; she wanted to reassure them — for doing so would reassure herself. "I have faith in Tsar Lunar and his Guardians, and _we_ have other duties. —Do we not?"

His answer was a non sequitur. "Do you know the Pooka?"

Toothiana sniffed, then silently berated herself for the crass action. "E. Aster Bunnymund, who has made it his life's purpose to _rot_ the teeth I've dedicated myself to preserving. If I did not know it was an impossibility, I would swear the rabbit man has chocolate sloshing around inside his head instead of a brain."

The youth smiled, a tiny, self-deprecating twist of his lips. "Aster does have his peculiarities, and he is perhaps too fond of ovals, but I will never again doubt the superb healing qualities of his chocolate." Memory darkened his glacial eyes, and Toothiana found herself moving forward once more; the gesture was unintentional, and yet it was _her_ hand covering his where it clenched around frigid wood. His smile softened though his stare remained distant. "I do, however, doubt _other_ things. Aster has foretold for me a future, and of a grand, glorious plan that will assure all of us victory."

She is amazed, for to her knowledge the Pooka had no friends and yet for Bunnymund to risk time itself for Winter's sake... they must be friends indeed. And the looming situation more grave than she'd thought.

He shrugged, and ice cracked and fell from the folds of his cloak. "Victory," he sighed, and rested his cheek against their joined hands. "Yet still I doubt. For I do not know your quality. There is a battle coming; Aster claims you will be part of it. And I need to know: Will you guard the Guardians?"

"Against the Nightmare King?" With a trill she called to all her selves, and they joined her in a whisper of joy and regret. "I will defend _any_ that dare to take him on. Yet still I wonder what concern it is of yours; it's rare for you to involve yourself in the affairs of mortals — and humanity is certainly _that_."

"You would be surprised," he tiredly repeated before yawning. "I would be at the battle myself if not for the fact Aster warned me that things will fare worse should I appear. And I would so very much like Nicholas to get through _one_ confrontation against Pitch without being severely injured. Have I your word, Toothiana? Will you watch over them? Will... Will you protect my Nicholas?"

She _knew_ the name Nicholas St. North. She knew of his deeds, and she knew the secret aspirations of his heart — for she had his dearest dreams safely stored inside his baby teeth at Punjam Hy Loo. And by remembering the boy St. North once was, she also truly knew for the first time the worn and ragged youth before her.

"Jack," she said, returning the bow he had given her — bowing to the memory of an orphaned boy's childhood friend, that played with him, and provided for him, and _loved_ him as others would come to do. "My blades are yours. I swear to you, with the last breath in my body I shall keep your Nicholas safe."

~o~

_As you can probably guess, this is almost entirely book based. Although the chances are good that book Toothiana wouldn't have touched Jack at all. Unless... I'm thinking she recognized another soul as lonely as she is. So — no romance! Just two shunned souls holding hands, okay? As for Toothiana's disdain for Bunnymund; well, why not? In the books, Bunnymund doesn't think much of _her _in the beginning._

_So, following the books' plot, we've covered North's orphaning and subsequent raising in the wild. North's joining the Cossacks and dreaming of being a bandit king. North learning to use the sword — since he wasn't having much luck with guns lol! North's illness after the fight with Pitch and the Bear. North creating toys for the children of Santoff Claussen at the beginning of the second book. North's near death after the battle with Pitch at the end of the second book. And now around the middle of the third book before Toothiana meets Katherine. ^_~ Which means the _next_ part takes place in the unreleased fourth book. Yay!_

_Huggles to you all, and I'm hoping your weather doesn't prevent you all from having fantastic days!_


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